


Five Times Jon Snow Smiled and the One Time He Didn't

by butteredflame



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon is a Magical Being, jonerysweek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9509066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: Jon Snow is many things. Humorous is not one of them. (Leave that to Dolorous Edd.) He’s not good with goodbyes either, or even hellos. So imagine, when a series of meetings with the Dragon Queen bring forth his smile, what must it mean? What a dilemma...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: A spec piece for https://jonerysweek.tumblr.com/ , the first annual appreciation week for this lovely ship. I'm so glad to be a part of it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own :)
> 
> A/N 2: This is for my soulmates, wherever you are. I miss you, I love you.

The sunlight was so much sharper this far south. It filtered through the clouds above, glinting in odd patterns on the waters chopping against the island. But the salty air was no less cold than in the far reaches of the North, for winter had come, and by the time the _Mermaid’s Tale_ docked, Jon Snow still hadn’t shaken the chill from his bones. He was unsure that he ever would. 

Time was precious, especially nowadays, so he climbed rolling hills to the castle entrance so fast he broke a sweat. Dragonstone was aptly named: dragons framed gates, their claws held torches on the inner walls, and their bodies were caught in flight, carved into stairwells. Jon had even noticed at the exterior, beastly creatures with snarling faces and capped bodies brooding on the crenellations high above. The Great Hall was the first sight to chill him, however, because he hadn’t expected to enter through the beast’s mouth and to see the Dragon Queen nestled in its belly. 

 _Winterfell looks nothing like this,_ he thought. _And she looks nothing like home._

Her visage had stained his mind’s eye, so sharp that as he knelt before her and her gathered advisors with a bowed head, he could not stop remembering.

The flame of Old Valyria licked within her: it was in the pink undertone to her fawn complexion, in her violet eyes, and in her silver-gold hair. The woman who had conquered half of Essos in two sun cycles, from whom _fire_ radiated, which Jon could feel from the other end of the hall, was contradictorily small of height, thin and thick of a woman’s full frame, and had pleasant features behind the Targaryen boldness. Jon was shocked by the echo of her footsteps moving toward him, and thought to shrink away before he remembered himself. The Queen’s advisors joined, then stopped when her shadow touched his knee.

“You may stand…your grace.”

Jon had not been so nervous since he stood before Stannis Baratheon the first time, after the king’s army had slashed through Mance Rayder’s like a butcher’s knife and the man demanded his allegiance. Jon’s hands went clammy, and his gloves were suddenly cloying. Nonetheless he moved to his feet. The Queen’s gaze struck him with a familiarity that reminded him of Ghost, rendering him speechless. His mind was so entangled, caught on the scent of soot and ash, and winter’s chill ebbing from his bones, that he didn’t feel the lift of his lips until he saw them in her own. 

He hadn’t expected to feel happiness, especially during the fleeting moment of their meeting. _So how is this so?_ He knew not, and neither did she. The disbelieving looks he was getting from her advisors— _so the rumors are true_ —indicated that they had not expected so, either.

 _Well,_ thought Jon, as she glanced to Tyrion Lannister, _this is different._

\--

What Jon knew of her was only from others’ mouths.

Merchants, pirates and whores called her the most beautiful woman in the world. The _Ghiscari_ slaves of Slaver’s Bay called her _Mhysa_. She called herself Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Slayer of Lies, The Dragon Queen.

It was clear that Daenerys Targaryen was many things. But it was also clear that she was acting differently, perhaps differently than normal, by the ways her advisors shifted uneasily, with uncertainty, at her side. From his seat next to hers, he saw only her regal posture, a comely flush at her neck that reached the dip below her ear, and her violet gaze that was as frightening as filling.

Only when a strong wind blew into the hall of Aegon’s Painted Table, causing a momentary spasm in Jon’s burnt left hand, did he remember himself and realize his erroneous ways. But it was too late. After their initial greetings—in which Jon shook hands with Lord Lannister like old friends, met the Queen’s scribe Missandei of _Naath_ , and exchanged universal gestures with her four _Dothraki_ bloodriders—Jon had fetched Ser Davos, Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont from the ship to discuss the very lethal force at the realm’s doorstep. Now they were seated, and the time had come to tell the Queen of what she had inherited.

Jon had never glimpsed the dragon’s wrath in Maester Aemon, so he almost hadn’t believed the tales of past Targaryens or the Queen. Keeping that in mind, Jon and his advisors briefed her on the Others above the Wall and their dead army. But at the first utterance of “walking dead,” her eyes flashed and they went silent.

“Lord Tyrion.” Her voice was sharp. “Have you heard of these stories?”

“No, your grace.” His fingers tapped the table, emanating his curiosity. “Maesters doubt the War for the Dawn and Whitewalkers were ever true, as do I. Regardless, they’ve become tales we tell to discipline children.”

Jon had been told those tales—he shivered at the memory of Old Nan’s stories about Ice Spiders, and was filled with flame at the memory of the Night’s King’s malevolent gaze. _But the Queen had not heard those tales,_ he realized, remembering that she’d spent her childhood impoverished and exiled in a foreign land. Lord Tyrion took Jon’s gaze again. 

“I travelled to the Wall with King Jon when he was a boy going to take the black. I do not believe in magic, but I believe in our Queen, and I believe that something other than hands alone helped shape that massive wall of ice. When I stood at the top and looked below into the Haunted Forest, I felt it. But the rest of it…? Who knows? Wildlings have been climbing over it for centuries, so on more than one occasion I have wondered, maybe the Wall is not to keep wildlings out? The realm _has_ changed much, even in my lifetime, your grace.”

Jon suspected that Lord Tyrion had just performed the limits of his title as Hand: to say what he thought and leave for the Queen to ruminate on. Jon had always tired of titles and games, and was doubly frustrated now, wishing the Queen wasn’t so skeptical. _And worse yet, untrusting._ He tried to be understanding, but found he could not.

Ser Davos leaned forward. “Have you ever been cursed at, my lord?” 

“In every waking moment.” Tyrion was clearly biting his tongue, wanting to say something more flowery.

“Has anyone ever said _May the Others_ _take you_ , my lord?”

Tyrion frowned. “Yes.”

“Well.” Ser Davos nodded. “It is not just a curse we utter. You had better track down the lad who said that to you, because it is _real._ I’ve seen it with my own eyes, struck it down with my own sword, and watched free folk and men of the Night’s Watch—including the King in the North—set their cold bones aflame. That’s the only way to stop them. And there are many of them coming. But even if all of the Great Houses of Westeros combine their armies, it may not be enough.”

The room went silent again. Daenerys was digesting the information. She had raised her chin, and her eyes missed no one. 

“Lord Karstark, Lady Mormont, have you been to the Wall?” she asked. “Have these _things_ been south of the Wall?”

“Yes,” answered the Little Bear. Standing from her seat, Lady Mormont moved to the north end of Aegon’s Painted Table and pointed to the small outcrop of her family’s seat. “The Bay of Ice is Bear Island’s natural fortress. However, wildings are not afraid of water, so we’ve been subject to countless raids for thousands of years. Killing wildlings is in my blood, your grace.” Daenerys nodded to her. “But we are not protected by the Wall. In recent weeks, wights have found their way to our shores. We fight them off, but we cannot last for long.”

“Karhold fares better, as it is further from the Wall,” Lord Karstark said. “But I have travelled to Winterfell to meet with the King, and I have been to the Wall several times with his party. They are coming, your grace.”

But Queen Daenerys was still skeptical. Her eyes were hard.

“Is this the sole purpose you have come to me?” she asked Jon. “To get my army?”

“ _No._ ”

“I will not believe these lies.”

“They are not _lies_ , your grace. I am insulted that you think I would travel so far only to lie to you." 

“Many have done so before,” she returned placidly. “What makes you different?”

“I am your blood, am I not?”

That stopped her cold. Lord Tyrion reached forward, but before he could speak she lifted a hand, silencing him. “That remains to be seen." 

Though uneasy, he said, “I will do whatever you want, your grace. Test me any way that you want. But first, I must get your support. The Maesters of Oldtown have sent their white ravens declaring winter’s arrival. Cold winds push from the north. And above the Wall, the dead army grows whether you believe it or not. The North is frozen solid and Winterfell is quickly moving through rations. We will not survive long.”

Her eyes narrowed at the word “we”. Jon would not have it. _I have seen too much and lost too much to be dismissed by a foreign queen, dragon blood or no. She has come too late; the realm will not wait for her._ He was already thinking of the less likely Houses he could call to— _perhaps the Tullys or the Greyjoys_ —when she replied.

“If I were to believe you, and send my fleet north to fight in this battle, I must get something from you in turn.”

 _Marriage._ Jon had already known, had already talked it through with Sansa and Ser Davos before he’d left Winterfell. He chose not think of it then, even as he nodded to the Queen. “Aye,” he supplied. “Marriage. I will give you my name and all my rights to the throne.”

 _We’ll just sign a contract. It’ll be simple._ Jon didn’t care; he only wanted the realm to survive the winter.

Though Queen Daenerys was still grim in her satisfaction, she was no less beautiful. Jon looked away, to the dim light filtering through the windows, then addressed her again. “I can prove it to you. I will fetch one and show you.”

“Show me…?”

“An Other.”

Jon had sent Samwell Tarly to Oldtown on the Lord Commander’s rule, so the memory was bitter within him, dark like the nothingness he became on the other side after his death. But the Gods restrained their wrath for once, as Sam hadn’t given up on him nor forgotten. Jon had received a Citadel raven just before he’d left for Dragonstone, and the letter, which was thrice bounded in tamper-free paper and invisible ink, detailed Sam’s findings. The maesters were so incensed by magic’s hold on the realm they sought to abolish it. They’d even gone so far as to hold an old Whitewalker within the bellows of the Hightower for more than one-hundred-fifty years. Since Sam wasn’t yet a maester, Jon thought he was lucky enough to escape with the information alive. _Sam may die trying to obtain and move the thing from Oldtown to Dragonstone too,_ thought Jon, _but we have to try._

Daenerys turned to Tyrion. They exchanged glances, then after a careful nod from Tyrion, she turned back to Jon.

Slowly she said, “You will find an Other." 

“Yes. As Lord Commander I sent Samwell Tarly to Oldtown to learn what he could about the Others. Before I left for Dragonstone he sent a raven, detailing his findings. The maesters have held an Other captive below Hightower for over a century. Although I am no longer Lord Commander, Sam will heed my request as a friend. He feels his duty to the realm as strong as I do, as strong as we all should. I will bring that Whitewalker to you myself, if I must.”

Jon held her gaze resolutely. At first he was unsure what he saw, but soon recognized the shine in her eye to be grudging respect. _And something else, something lighter._

“Okay,” she said. “My army, in exchange for your hand in marriage. The agreement will be put forward upon proof of the Others. You had better be fast, Jon Snow." 

If Jon were still a boy, he would have wondered how such a serendipitous meeting—he still wondered if it had been real—could turn so sour. But he was a man, now, and life had proven to be complex and unforgiving. Recalling Ser Davos’s advice to fail again, he nodded to the Dragon Queen in assent, signifying their agreement. When it was finally done the room relaxed enough that the scent of soot hit his nose again and he felt the sheer heat of her. Whoever she was, he would take in stride, for the realm depended on their arrangement. _Such is the duty of Targaryen blood,_ he thought grimly, _the great rulers of the Seven Kingdoms._

More or less he had left the North in the hands of Sansa and Tormund Giantsbane, so the Lady of Winterfell and de facto leader of the free folk could hold the peace. But Jon was keenly aware that he needed to return to Winterfell to continue building the precarious foundation the North came to with Ramsay Bolton’s defeat and his resurrection as King. Lady Mormont and Lord Karstark had their own households to tend to, as well. As such, Jon and his advisors stayed in Dragonstone for only three more days.

Before they climbed aboard the _Mermaid’s Tale_ to sail choppy seas back to White Harbor, he penned a letter to Sam, detailing his agreement with the Queen, and sent it off with the hope that his friend had one more adventure left in him. Then he and the Dragon Queen said goodbye with staunched nods and tight eyes; a careful agreement.

 _If this is what it was like for Father—Uncle Ned, to rule, I understand_ , he thought, gazing into the thick sea sky. _I understand._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the chapters throughout the week. 5 or 6 in total. Let's get 'er done!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I got the idea of a captive Other from ellymelly's  _Fire and Ice,_ which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4445357/chapters/10099637) _._ What she does is brilliant, and in fact I think the scenario is totally plausible, considering how GRRM sets things up at the end of AFFC. Those maesters, man... 

Buckle up cuz shit gets weird :)

 

 

 

The _Sea Farrow_ had sailed unusually quiet tides in the Narrow Sea, so quiet that Jon had the fleeting thought that the Others’ magic was the cause; a case of misfortune masquerading as fortune. He believed himself to be merely cautious, not paranoid, because the Others had revealed themselves in their greatest stroke of power yet.

A moon’s turn after returning to Winterfell, he had received a letter with the wax seal of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Within it Dolorous Edd gave him foreboding news: fissures had formed at the base of the Wall, from the Shadow Tower to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Castle Black reaped the worst of the damage, so bad the tram was made immobile, thereby preventing the black brothers from scouting.

Although Jon had not received word from Sam about the Other in Oldtown—and was sure Queen Daenerys would dismiss him as soon as he arrived—he sent word to her of the Wall with the hopes that she was a wise enough ruler to realize that the time for inaction and disbelief had ended. In any case he kept Edd’s letter on his person for the duration of the journey southward, for if the Queen read it with her own eyes, the better.

Once the ship finally docked at Dragonstone, Jon climbed rolling hills to the castle with his party. Instead of tending to the household, the commonfolk cast odd looks to them. But Jon didn’t mind because he knew what they saw: with him were two greybeards, a lanky young man, and a girl of nine years.

_After the dominion of House Bolton, we are all the North has left,_ Jon thought staunchly, glancing among his companions. Lord Howland Reed was the protector of the crannogmen of the Neck. He had had been a loyal friend to Uncle Ned, had fought with him in many battles during Robert’s Rebellion, and for that reason Jon and Sansa hadn’t hesitated to bring him within the fold. _Plus,_ thought Jon, _the aged lord had ridden two weeks just to get to us. He doesn’t know where his two children are; his last wish is to fight with us. We couldn’t ask for more._

When they arrived at the castle entrance, they were greeted by various members of the household. With the plan to recoup from the trip before their meeting with the Queen that evening, they separated to their quarters.

Jon was greeted by the castle’s Maester Cressen, a gentle, aged man that reminded him much of Maester Aemon. He guided Jon through many dragon rooms and dragon halls, past beastly figures around unexpected corners. Jon was beginning to tire when they finally arrived at the tower facing west, balancing at the edge of a cliff. The Stone Drum held the center keep: Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives Rhaenys and Visenya spent their days at the fourth level, and at the top level his Chamber of the Painted Table viewed the four corners of the world. Naturally, the Queen took residence in Aegon’s chambers. The Stone Drum also housed chambers in the east wing of the third level, which to Jon’s surprise, she had designated as his.

He spent the next hour musing on the gesture, as he washed and prepared himself for the meeting.

When the time came he climbed three winding staircases to the tower’s peak. Right inside the door, he stopped. His eyes narrowed as he tried to correct his vision, or perhaps to squeeze out the image before him. He blinked, and then the figure turned to him. The grey-blue armor of his house glinted in the candlelight that the servants had placed around Aegon’s war room, and on his breastplate, the wrathful kraken broke its chains. Yet Theon’s eyes strained from his pale, gaunt face, and his white brittle hair curled around the maimed shells of his ears. Beside him, staring hard at Jon, stood who could only be his older sister Asha. _She is more Ironborn than Theon ever was,_ Jon thought. He headed straight for them, held his hand out, and said, “The Queen told me of your alliance with her, of the ships you sent to help her leave Slaver’s Bay. The past is in the past, you have suffered enough. I am glad to see you again, Theon. And you, Lady—“

“Queen.”

He stopped. “Forgive me. Queen Asha. It is a pleasure to meet you, your grace.”

“Likewise…your grace." 

Theon only smiled at him, tight lipped and a bit pained, but sincere. Jon waited for him to speak but he did not. The Queen of the Iron Islands took his arm and spun him in a half circle so quickly he couldn’t stop her. His eyes followed the sweeping motion of her hand. “There are plenty of other members to introduce yourself to, White Wolf. Over there is Princess Arianne of Dorne and three of her knights.” The woman was two or so years older than them: striking and buxom, mid-deep complexion of the Rhoynar, graced with large dark eyes and dark hair that fell down the length of her back. She was already watching him. “And there is Lord Paxter Redwyne, captain of the Redwyne fleet and leader of the Tyrell fleet. He is here to negotiate in Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery’s stead, while they stay in the Reach.”

The captain’s blonde hair was far past the balding stage Stannis Baratheon had reached, yet his eyes were youthful and sharp, and his pale, sea weathered hands looked strong. Jon returned his nod of acknowledgement with a tilt of his head. With a furrowed brow he asked her, “Why have they stayed behind?”

“Your war at the Wall isn’t the only one to fight, _your grace._ The Tyrells have stayed behind to keep tabs on Cersei Lannister, the False Queen. Or have you forgotten all about her?”

Jon blanched. She laughed. And apparently she was full of more surprises, because she shoved him away from her.

“Leave us. Introduce yourself. _Learn_.”

“Touch me one more time, woman—”

“ _Go._ " 

Jon held her gaze a moment longer, wondering if her countenance was sourced from something other than his apparent ignorance. However, she would not yield or expose herself, so Jon turned away and went to introduce himself to the Princess of Dorne. He had heard of the men in her family dying within months of each other: her uncle Oberyn died by combat in King’s Landing, her younger brother Quentyn died halfway around the world by dragonfire after Queen Daenerys disappeared into the Dothraki Sea, and then her father Doran died by the hand of her uncle’s paramour. The people of Dorne had been itching for war with the Lannisters, so no one batted an eyelash at the prince’s sudden death nor Arianne’s upliftment to the Martell ruling seat. In fact, they had rejoiced when the Princess sent a fleet to Slaver’s Bay for Queen Daenerys. Jon didn’t know much of Dornish politics, but he knew that the woman before him was as cunning as graceful.

“I have heard much of you,” she started. “Bastard of Winterfell risen as the White Wolf, the King in the North. Tell me, your grace, are the winds at the top of the Wall this cold?" 

Jon frowned. “Almost, yes.”

“Then the maesters of Oldtown predicted correctly. And what of the Others? Are they real?”

Before he could answer, the knight beside her cut in. “Why do you humor him, your grace? His tongue wields only lies.”

_This is what I’ve been waiting for,_ Jon thought, as he met the man’s dubious gaze. His hand felt for Longclaw’s hilt; he hadn’t had a fight in over two moon’s turn. He was rusty. _Best to to get the blood pumping with someone as foolish as him._

“Ser, please,” the princess scolded. Her eyes were sincere, but her lips had curled into a smirk. “I only want to hear him out. King Jon—if I may?”

He was confused. She gestured to him. _Oh._ He wondered how she was the only one, out of many he’d met recently, who thought he might hesitate at the title. _King._

“Yes…”

“Queen Daenerys has gathered us upon the news of your letter from the Night’s Watch. She says fissures have formed all along.”

“They have, princess. From east to west. We must all take action, _now_.”

As she shifted, spices unknown to Jon lifted from her jeweled winter gown. “What do you think our best course of action would be?”

_No,_ this _is what I’ve been waiting for._ “Well—”

The air shifted and Jon fell silent at the arrival of the Queen. She was trailed by Lord Tyrion, her scribe Missandei, two of her _bloodriders_ , and three Unsullied. Jon was on the other side of the chamber near the windows, so he saw the way the gathered individuals shifted at her presence: postures were corrected, armor was re-aligned, and jewels were straightened. Everyone bowed to her then took their seats. Jon was the last to reach the table, for he suddenly felt sluggish as if the Gods had slowed the wheel of time.

He knew he would see her, but for whatever reason, _seeing_ her again was unmistakably pleasant—in a way that reminded him of Ygritte’s flaming hair and Val’s audacious smirk. He remembered that nearly two moons had passed, and he suddenly wanted to ask how she had fared. He hoped that despite the unduly pressure and their disagreement on the Others, they could reach something akin to camaraderie. 

He took his seat between Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion, which made her only one seat over at the helm of the Painted Table. Beyond the four windows, the Seven Kingdoms were hers. And Jon was still smiling.

A throat cleared pointedly, from Lord Tyrion. Jon glanced away from her smile to the lord, then back to her again. She had closed her eyes. With a deep breath she opened them again.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming as fast as you could.” She looked to Jon. “The letter, your grace?”

His nose tingled with soot and ash as the Queen held her hand out to him, palm up. Hoping that no one thought he was directing his unsettled frown at her, he retrieved the letter from the pocket in his wool cloak and placed it in her palm. Hearing Edd’s words sent yet another trickle of fear down Jon’s spine. The Queen read it a second time, silently. 

Placing it to the side she said, “Okay. I believe.”

“He was to fetch a supposed _Other_ for you, your grace,” said Princess Arianne’s knight. “Under the command not to return until he had it.”

“He was.” To Jon she asked, “Have you heard from Samwell Tarly?”

“No.”

“He may be dead.”

He nodded through the pain in his chest; the heartbreak. “Yes, he may be, your grace.”

“ _And_?” said the knight.

“This letter is proof enough, Ser. The fact that you’ve all come this far on good faith for _this_ letter is proof enough.” She paused. “King Jon’s continued campaign and his efforts to rally us all, is proof enough. Now, we must decide what to do.”

She moved to the south side the table, getting a long-range view of the Wall.

“The Wall is lost.”

“I must disagree, your grace,” said Ser Davos. “I think it would be entirely _unfruitful_ to abandon the Night’s Watch.” 

“The Wall is the only thing that stands between us and them,” said Lady Mormont. “If we leave it unattended—" 

Daenerys was firm. “It will not stand for long.”

“But even so…if we leave it unattended we are more susceptible, more vulnerable.”

The chamber was gripped by tension, punctuated by every echo of her footsteps against the stone floor. She placed her hand at the Neck and trailed her eyes almost leisurely, from there to the Wall.

“The knowledge I have of the Wall has been filtered through maesters, lords and kings. I myself have never been there. In fact, I have only just learned the tales of the Long Night and the War for the Dawn, because as you all know, I was raised in Essos, in exile.” She released a breath, so hot, sweat prickled at Jon’s neck. He swallowed deeply. “But from what I know, the Others are competent, if not stealthy. They have made themselves clear. The Wall is not for us, nor may it have ever been—”

“ _Your grace._ ” Jon couldn’t let her continue. “The Wall has stood for thousands of years as the only thing between us and them. The men of the Night’s Watch have spilt their blood there, in the hopes that their sacrifice may mean something— _to_ _keep them out._ We cannot let the Others pass, and we _cannot_ leave those men to their fate—”

“You and I may be friendly and we may share blood, but do not presume to speak over me. I am your queen. And you may become my king. You will respect me. You will listen.”

Her tone was chilling; she stared him down. Jon was infuriated by her, but he was aware of the others around the table weighing their exchange; merely liege to her grace, he clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze.

She continued. “We cannot fight the Others while holding the Wall, when they’re breaking it down from the other side with _magic._ You know this, Jon. You all know this. It will be best to leave the Wall and prepare ourselves for battle southward. The Night’s Watch will not disband. They will simply…operate elsewhere. Any wildlings that manage to climb over the Wall will be taken in by Lady Stark…and King Jon…as they’ve been doing so. In the meantime, I will prepare myself to unseat the False Queen. The Seven Kingdoms must be united in order to face this foe. And I will have what is mine. 

“Lord Redwyne, how many ships do you have left?”

“One hundred eighty-two in the Redwyne fleet, your grace. The lords of the Shield Islands command one hundred-fifty. And the coastal lords have eighty. As ever, House Tyrell supports the Targaryen rein and welcomes your return." 

“Thank you, Lord Redwyne. Asha?”

“The Iron Fleet commands just over three hundred ships, your grace." 

“Arianne?” 

“Two hundred from Dorne, your grace.” 

“Okay. My Unsullied will sail on the two hundred ships I procured from the masters of Slaver’s Bay. That will be more than enough.” She clasped her hands before her. “The False Queen knows I am here and that you have allied with me. Against her slim odds she has begun preparing King’s Landing for a siege. Most of the city’s smallfolk will fall under her heel in her efforts to keep the Throne, so when we land, we must protect as many them as we can. They are innocent in all of this. On the outskirts of the city, the Red Keep will be most heavily guarded: that is where we’ll find her.

“To that end…we will prepare our fleets to sail into Blackwater Bay within a fortnight.” 

Suddenly Jon realized—or perhaps he remembered. _She is a conqueror. She knows how to do this better than us all. Even me._ Part of him ached with the memories of his time as a black brother; of the smiles shared with his few friends, of his harrowing and youthful time north of the Wall, and his short time as Lord Commander and the traitor’s knives that had taken his life. Jon had been reborn by the magic of R’hllor and Lady Melisandre’s faith. _But Daenerys…is rebirth. Her trail of light, smoke and heat from east to west is proof._

For a heartbeat, he wished he’d seen her when the red comet had passed, when she was rebirthed with her dragons as their Mother and The Unburnt. _That would have been a sight_. She looked around the room, gaining the assurance of her allies. When their eyes met again, coal black on violet, he felt the flame of her licking at his being. Jon was not a man for magic or prophecy, so he was uneasy with the feeling she created within him. Nonetheless he chose to focus on the day’s triumph.

When the meeting ended and the room disbanded, the Queen asked him to stay behind.

“Jon…”

_She is still using my given name._ He was more than hesitant to use hers, so he said, “Yes, your grace?”

 “I am sorry about your friend, Samwell.”

“He’s survived much worse than Oldtown. He may still be alive.”

She nodded, looked away. Crossed her arms over her gown. “You didn’t return with an Other. But Lord Commander Tollett’s letter is just as good if not more, because the winds of change came with it. I am with you in this war.”

He didn’t know what to say. He bowed his head deeply. “Thank you, your grace.”

A moment passed as she said nothing. She was watching him again. He clenched his burnt hand, trying to rid the spasm that was creeping in from his fingertips.

“This means our deal still stands. Tell me—” She was suddenly smirking. “Are you prepared for marriage?”

Jon enjoyed the way she made herself laugh. _I know of your marriages, Dragon Queen. One Dothraki Khal. One master of Meereen. I have big shoes to fill._  

“Surely, you understand, as the only other living Targaryen we must—” 

She stopped herself.

“Your grace?”

“After the death of my brother Viserys, I thought I was the last of my name for years, only to discover that I am not. I couldn’t be happier." 

Jon watched, bemused, as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. He understood what it felt like to be nameless and disregarded, wandering the edge of the world. _She was lonely, as was I._ But now they were brought together by fate, power and name. It had to be good for something other than war.

Jon was not a man for magic or prophecy. But by now, he certainly believed in it. And more than anything, he believed the Dragon Queen would take him places he couldn’t conceive. _Bad, good, or grand._ After bowing to her again, he left her in Aegon’s Hall.

 

*&*

 

A week later Sam arrived with the Other. For the journey the creature had been held in a box made of dragonglass. Jon’s first thought was of the high cost of the box, and he wondered how the maesters of the Citadel could afford it. Then he wondered how they fashioned it. And then finally, he wondered how Sam had fared in the journey, and what was the cause of the new the scars on his face.

He greeted his friend with a bear hug at the entrance of the Great Hall, unable to wait for him to cross the room.

“Sam!” he exclaimed. “It is good to see you, brother. I have missed you.”

“Aye, I’ve missed you too, Jon. You’ve lost weight.”

“You have too. What happened?" 

Their reunion ended with the careful interruption of Queen Daenerys. She welcomed him into her home and praised him for his bravery. Though at first shocked by the image she made, with Jon’s help Sam quickly knelt to her, wincing from unseen wounds. After a short discussion on Sam’s trip from Oldtown and the Other he had brought with him, the Queen told them she’d had the creature placed within the dungeons of the Stone Drum. Soon Sam was too tired to converse more, so she sent a few servants and Maester Cressen to guide him to his chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower. Jon went with him, clapping his shoulder the walk over. He was glad to see his friend again, _alive._

While Sam recover, Jon waited to speak with him. Days passed. Jon and his advisors needed to return to Winterfell. But as time passed he began to think otherwise. The Queen took Sam’s few waking moments, visiting his chambers to press him for more information. During that time Jon went to the dungeons to visit the Other and its dragonglass cage. He recognized the grizzled features carved from its icy face, of the Whitewalker he had dueled at Hardhome. The creature was older than men could conceive, shifting its icy body with the grace of a great animal, silent but for the faint _crack_ that pierced the air. Jon spent hours watching it, and it stared back with deep pools of the coldest blue. He knew the creature— _being—_ understood what had happened and what was happening. Captivity hadn’t broken what spirit it had. _Or perhaps it has no spirit at all,_ Jon surmised. _Perhaps only will, and that’s why they’re so good at killing. Still, what do they want?_

Four days after Sam’s arrival, Maester decreed he was ready for visitors. He went to his friend’s chambers in the Sea Dragon tower and found him seated at his desk, holding an inked feather to parchment. 

Without moving his eyes from his work Sam greeted Jon. “The Queen and I had an interesting conversation.”

“You’ve had several. Were they all interesting?"

“Oh, yes,” Sam chuckled.

Jon stopped beside the desk, eyeing the paper. It was a letter drafted to his woman, Gilly.

“How is she? And the babe?”

“Who-? Oh, Gilly! She’s well. Little Sam is too. See this parchment? She can read every word I write. She’s a fast learner, Jon.”

“I knew she would be." 

“No, you didn’t.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “I had my doubts, but I am glad everything worked out fine. Where are they?" 

“They’ve stayed in the Windwyrm tower while I healed.”

Jon was shocked. “How did I not know they are here?” 

“Well,” Sam hedged. “She is still uncomfortable around you, still fears you some.”

Jon sighed. “I understand.” He did, although he wished the wildling woman would overcome her hesitance around him. _In any case she is a true, trustworthy woman._ He would settle for staunched meetings if that’s what she wanted. “So what was this conversation you had with her grace?” 

Sam brows raised and his mouth pinched to the left. Jon’s familiarity with his friend’s face had not lessened with the passage of time apart, so he nudged him.

“What’s that look for?”

“She is quite fond of you. Grudgingly so, but I suspect her feelings are true.”

“What are you…?”

“I suppose it’s time to tell you.” Sam moved to his feet, joining Jon. “I was unable to procure the Whitewalker from its cell below Hightower, without the maesters finding out. Luckily, old Archmaester Marwyn saved Gilly and I from an ugly death. Then he ushered us away, and we watched the novices he had gathered wield unholy chains of dragonglass on the Other like _Dothraki_ bloodriders whip slaves! I was amazed and horrified! Then the archmaester stole us away in the middle of the night with the Whitewalker in the box he had fashioned—just in case it ever needed to be moved. It makes me uneasy, Jon. All of those maesters have ulterior motives, vested interests. But Marwyn is for the Queen’s cause and believes she is the only one who can save the realm.”

Jon’s eyes widened. He heard Lady Melisandre’s voice in his ear, whispering the prophecy of Azor Ahai. He kept his mouth shut, however, unsure if the tales from the shores of Asshai by the Shadow had been what the maester spoke of. _How could it be? Why would a maester believe in such tales anyway?_

Sam continued. “Having helped us, Marwyn has of course abandoned his life in Oldtown. He reached Dragonstone with us but stayed only long enough to meet with the Queen and secure the Other in the dungeons. He left three days ago." 

“Where did he go? Why did I not meet him?”   
  
“He didn’t tell anyone. For all you and I know he could be a corpse bobbing in the Narrow Sea, having fulfilled his mission. Or not.”

Jon frowned. “Doesn’t _that_ make you uneasy?”

“Oh, no. After what I’ve seen from that man… I believe we had best count our blessings to have him on our side. I won’t push beyond that, nor try to understand his eccentric ways. And, you didn’t meet him, because he wished not to meet you. He was getting quite emotional to be honest…”

Jon shook his head, deciding to leave it alone. “Well, I am glad everything worked out and that you, Gilly and the babe are safe. Have you been healing well?”

“Oh, yes. Maester Cressen is a gift from the Seven.”

“I’m sure,” Jon chuckled, clapping his friend’s shoulder. 

“Queen Daenerys has been most accommodating,” Sam smiled. “As you know, she visited me. During those times, we had the most interesting conversations. After telling her of what I’d learned of the Others in the Citadel, which mind you wasn’t much beyond glass candles and the ice-like swords they wield—”

“ _What_?”

“I’ll explain later. After that, we concluded that they are indeed magical beings. But there is no way to know if they were ever Men, however their likeness to us. We talked some more…and we believe the Wall is not for the realms of men, that it may have never belonged to us. If they are breaking it down, that means they built it, at least in some part. What books I could find on the building of the Wall and the Age of Heroes detailed nothing of the Others. But Citadel maesters like to pick and choose what becomes history, you see." 

“Sam… You _have_ changed.”

“Shut it.” 

“I am only glad that I sent you to the Citadel. It did you good, despite the harrowing nature of the adventure.”

“Harrowing indeed,” Sam murmured. “Well…her grace and I have concluded that it was wise to tell Dolorous Edd to abandon the Wall. There is nothing left for us there, but death.”

“So that was all you could find on the Others? That’s _it_?”

“That, and one book, which Archmaester Marwyn said was the last that existed on the Night’s King.” 

“But—” Recalling the legendary tale of the Thirteenth Lord Commander and his bride, Jon started. “He is _real_ , Sam.”

“How—how do you know?” 

“I saw him at the Battle of Hardhome, which occurred long after you’d sailed for Oldtown. I slayed a Whitewalker with Longclaw, but their power overtook us all. Few got out alive. And at the end, I saw him raise thousands of dead men, women and children with the lift of his arms. He saw me, Sam. _He saw me._ ”

Sweat had pooled at Jon’s brow and his stomach roiled at the memory of that day. The fear and trepidation that had grasped his body as they’d sailed from the coast in measly boats, the way his lungs strained to operate as the Night’s King’s icy face twisted, star-like eyes boring into him, seized Jon once more. Sam brought him to the desk chair and patted his shoulders, told him to breathe, and waited.

“Do not worry, Jon,” he said moments later. “The Queen is magical too, you see. She and I spoke of much and more. The Gods have spun prophecies for her and have given her powers not seen by anyone, including the maesters, in a long time. Her Targaryen blood is only one motive for her many enemies.”

“She is Mother of _Dragons_ ,” he snapped. “Of course she is magical.”

“But do you know just how much? I know you aren’t one for it all…”

“No,” Jon frowned, “I don’t know how much. But it matters none. She will be the woman I will marry, because I must.”

“Aye, that is so.” His eyes were heavy on Jon. “In any case, I wish you both luck.”

Jon grumbled. Sam laughed.

“Don’t pretend, Jon. Your heart sings for her.”

“And what do you know of my heart, Sam?" 

“Nothing, your grace.”

“Shut up, Sam." 

“As you wish, your grace,” said Sam, bowing deeply. 

“Stop it, you fool,” Jon said, pulling him up straight. “You’ll open your stitches. Come, let’s take a walk. Talk of the Others and Dragon Queens leave a desire for fresh air. In fact, I’ll introduce you to the Lords and Lady of the North that serve as my advisors. You’ve missed much, my friend.”

The night wore on with greetings, conversations and soon supper. Yet dinner was an uneasy affair, for by then most of the gathered lords and ladies had seen the Other. Although Jon had begun the journey seeking the Queen’s aid, the Known World was suddenly much bigger than anyone in the realm had thought, perhaps for thousands of years. By the somber air and tight faces of his companions, he knew the others mused the same.

Much had changed, leaving Jon unsure if he should return home, despite his yearning. Dragonstone was where he needed to be.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the beautiful you. I filled this with my feelings for you, and sent this out to you. I can’t wait to meet again.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own.

_Sansa,_

_I long for home and regret not being there to help you. I am sure housing the remaining free folk and the black brothers is difficult, but do not fear, for the strain you endure now tests your leadership. By now I am sure the North sees the ruler you will become._

_The winds of change have quickened their arrival, in ways which I cannot mention in this letter. Dragonstone is where I must be, to prepare for Queen Daenerys's battle with the False Queen and the Others. And the Vale is where you must go now, for Winterfell will soon be lost. I have already sent a letter to Lord Protector Petyr Baelish; he will heed my request to take the household in. We both know you have nothing to fear from him anymore._

_Do not rush, but do not dawdle. Most importantly, make sure no one is left behind._

_I don't care much for my belongings. Take only what you think can be carried in the journey and leave the rest. Of course, I know Ghost is safe with you. I wish you luck, cousin. You will do fine._

_I will see you soon._

_Jon_

 

*&*

 

He had just sent his raven off to Winterfell, when a massive screech pierced the cold, damp air. The dragon’s cry shook the tower, shooting vibrations from his feet to his hands. He peeked his head out the small window in the rookery, long enough to make sure his raven was flying safely away from the dragon. Then he hurried down winding steps, ran across the gallery, then climbed more winding steps to his chambers in the Stone Drum. At his desk he found the letter he had forgotten to send away. After quickly stoking the low flames in his fireplace, he took the letter, then seized when footsteps stopped just inside his door.

When she left two days ago for King’s Landing, the sun had been sharp. On her return, it had hidden itself behind thick clouds of soot and snow. That is how Jon knew she won, and he was even more sure, by the appearance she made. The Queen was flushed, windblown and covered in dust—so full and sudden as her eyes traced the evidence of Jon’s stay. Aware that she was in his chambers for the first time, he was caught between joy in her triumph and a greenboy’s awkward shifting.

 _Where she triumphs, a new era begins,_ he thought _. The Seven Kingdoms just may find peace at the end of this._ However, even as he was buoyed by hope, he was aware that he may not live to see that end.

“You defeated her, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Daenerys said. “But I did not get to kill her.”

Jon deflated. “Who did?”

In the moon that had turned since Jon journeyed to Dragonstone for the second time, he and the Queen had become close enough that Jon was not surprised she came to him. What he was unsure of, was what her wandering eyes saw and what she thought of the little he had. He wanted to know which dragon she had returned on. He wanted to know what had happened during the battle, how many of her army and how many smallfolk had died, and what went in up flames. He wanted to know what buildings had turned to dust and now fell off her shoulders. More than anything, he wanted to know why her triumph had made her so somber.

He took careful steps to her, stopping when she met his gaze. Her voice was unusually soft.

"The Kingslayer. Jamie Lannister. _Her brother_. Cersei was mine to kill…and yet the man that killed my father had wrapped his hands around her neck by the time I found them, tucked away in the Red Keep. As I watched the life fade from her, and tears fill his eyes, I wondered what punishment I could give him that the Gods eventually won’t. I am…I do not know what to do with him.” She gave a weary sigh. “I couldn’t kill him…”

 _The Kingslayer is now a kinslayer as well._ He understood that a dark fate had been spun for Ser Jaime, that Daenerys had been touched by it. Moreover, he wondered what the fates of Lord Tyrion’s siblings would do to him, how he would mourn them. Nonetheless, Jon’s family was one step closer to avenging the hell the Lannisters had put them through. Sansa could better set their ancient house back to rights. _May Uncle Ned and Lady Catelyn and Robb and Arya and Rickon rest in peace. May my Lady mother and Uncles Brandon and Benjen welcome them home._

“I understand,” he said. “Triumph is sometimes uneasy to bare. But even so, you have much to rejoice and be thankful for. Did you enter the Throne Room? Did you finally get to see it?”

Her eyes flashed in a way Jon had gotten used to. It wasn’t Targaryen blood and fire, but Daenerys’s own shifty hesitation. _What does she not want me to know?_  She shifted again. 

“I must go.”

“Wait, I—” The words tumbled out before he knew what would follow. She had turned away, but paused at his request. “Forgive me, your grace. I only wish to speak with you more. But I understand that you have many things to tend to, including yourself. Is there anything you wish me to do?”

Jon’s heart quickened, fluttering as she passed another glance at his person. Her voice was soft.

“I wish to speak with you as well, but not now. I will return in an hour.”

“Oh,” he flushed, “that needn’t be so soon.” 

“I want to.” She glanced at the rolled parchment in his hand. “Do only what you had planned to. I will see you soon.”

A heartbeat later she was gone. ~~~~

*&*

He woke with lighting in his nose and ash on his tongue. The power and heat of a destructive burning had seized him, _so_ _cold._ The fire had likely been out for hours, though with a glance at the waning moon, he knew it was still early into the night. His chambers were so _cold_ , so he didn’t know how he had woken with the stiff, demanding heat of his manhood. Yet having not even felt the pleasure of his own hand for weeks, he was itchy, restless, wanting. A few tugs in he felt warm and comfortable. A few tugs later he had reached his peak and released himself, gritting his teeth with a quiet moan.

With closed eyes he saw a fire red sword falling out of darkness. It startled him so much he thought of his Queen—of how he wanted to touch her, how he wanted to gaze upon her smile. Jon turned his face into his pillow and groaned. His heart was heavy and his body was tight with desire; he had never been so scared in his life. 

The night had come before she returned to his chambers, and the household had convened for a meeting. She’d announced the proceedings of the battle, of the lives lost and ships that were damaged, of the noble members of Royal Court that had rallied in her name, and of how she had planned to heal the realm of a long civil war. Lastly she’d thanked everyone for their allegiance and alliance, “To the inception of a new era.” Lord Tyrion had toasted in her name, quickly inciting a cheer for Queen Daenerys Stormborn, “Long may she reign.”  

 _She didn’t come back._ Jon had understood her exhaustive responsibilities. _I must have missed her fiercely, however, to have…_ He climbed from bed, rinsed his hands in a nearby water basin, then spent some time forging a fire. Soon his chambers had warmed enough that he was able to return to sleep.

In the morning, Jon went down to the Great Hall. Although entering through the beast’s mouth continued to unnerve him, he was pleasantly tired, in the way a release and thoughts of the Queen could bring, so it seemed; thus he didn’t mind that day. He broke his fast with Sam, Ser Davos and Lady Lyanna. The parties that had gathered, filtering in and out of Dragonstone for some weeks, were seated about. Princess Arianne and her knights had taken a liking to Theon and Asha Greyjoy. To Jon’s faint surprise, he often saw Lord Redwyne consorting with Lord Howland and the young Lord Harrion Karstark. Today was no different. Many and more of the Queen’s allies had convened just before her battle, leaving a few behind at home to keep order immediately following the battle.

“I sent a raven to Sansa,” he began, after digging into his fried egg. Sam glanced at him with faint surprise.

“So you’re doing it then?”

“No,” he shook his head. “She’s doing it.”

Ser Davos nodded. “That’ll do right by her, lad. It’s good for the ruling arm, I’ve been told.”

“Good for Winterfell, too,” said Jon. “She knows firsthand how impassible the Vale becomes in autumn. Now that winter has come I trust she’ll be cautious. However, I fear all the North may have to leave.”

“And go where?” asked Lady Lyanna, brown eyes sharp on his.

Jon sighed. “Anywhere, it seems. We will move to survive, if we must.”

“I agree _._ Although, I am reminded of Princess Nymeria leading the Rhoynar across the Known World for years…" 

“That won’t be us.” Jon was firm. “Kings of Winter, are we not? If the realm survives this war, we’ll do so without catching frostbite.”

“Aye, that’s it,” Ser Davos grinned. “Indeed, the blood of the First Men is your own. Tell your Houses, my lord, my lady, that the North will migrate as your ancestors had.” He winked lasciviously. “That’ll move one or two.”

 _Your japes are enviable, Ser_. With a shake of his head Jon bit into a mound of fresh bread.

“Say what you will. Our first instinct is to burrow into our castles to ride out the coming storms. They must all leave before they get too comfortable, before the snowbanks build and the dead come in darkness. Lady Lyanna agrees.” He sighed. “I will speak with Lord Harrion today. Even if he isn’t amenable, which I believe is unlikely, I will send a batch of ravens to the lords of the North today. The others I worry for more, but make no mistake, my command is non-negotiable.”

“They get it, Jon.” Sam nudged him. “Did you sleep well?”

Jon hid his face in his hands.

“What?” Sam chuckled. “What did I say?”

Jon didn’t think he could tell Sam of his desire for the Queen, even without company. _I have a feeling he will say I told you so._ Jon chose to say nothing. In fact, he kept his mouth politely shut into the mid hours of the day, breaking his silence only long enough to brief Lord Harrion on his plans. After getting his acquiescence, Jon went to his chambers. He had penned five letters when Daenerys came to him.

She looked graceful after a long night’s sleep. _Rulership begets her,_ he thought, noting her comely flush and the brightness of her eyes after a day’s battle. _She was born for this._ He watched her take a seat at the small table near his bed. After a moment Jon moved from the desk and joined her.

She clasped her hands before her, watching him, and smiled, all cheeks and teeth and shining eyes. Jon smiled in turn, at first uncertain and then genuinely, happily. They chuckled, like they’d shared something unknown to others. Feeling himself stir, he looked away, seeing that on the other side of his rooms a piece of parchment was in danger of falling to the floor. When he chanced a glance at her she was still watching him. Sometimes Jon felt like a fool lumbering around cunning women. _But I am not much a fool anymore._ He wanted her, realized she wanted him, too.

Daenerys finally spoke. “Yesterday, during the briefing. Did you hear everything you wanted to know, my lord?”

“The gritty details were to my liking. But…did you walk through fire, by any chance?" 

“No,” she laughed. “Not this time. I tried not to burn the city to the ground, as I _am_ trying to make a home there.”

“What of Dragonstone? Someone needs to take residence here.”

“The heir apparent will, of course. As it’s been so for centuries.”

Jon’s brow rose, and she shifted. He couldn’t speak of marriage yet, let alone children. _Nor her brother, my father._ Jon would never had thought to see her sheepish smile, but there it was, smoldering rather than burning. He wiggled his nose.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now, of my plans for the North.”

“I have.”

“What do you think?”

She paused, then released a hot breath. “I think you could go your whole life without my advising, and you would do well, Jon. You thrived at the edge of the world, then became the King in the North, the White Wolf." 

He frowned. “I know you don’t like it.”

“I never said I _dislike_ it, your grace.” She was suddenly smirking. “It took some getting used to. However, I realize you are big enough, full enough, to have loyalties in more than one place. I am, as well. I understand.”

“Do you think it will be enough?”

“Yes. I suspect that in the dead hour, many will have left their homes, you and I included.” She gestured to the castle above their heads and below their feet. “With battle comes movement.”

“Which you are no stranger to, aye?”

“No.” Her voice was a low timber, speckled with humor. “Although I suppose I’ve been in movement since I left my mother’s womb. My brother Viserys and I, knew Pentos best, the Dothraki Sea the least. Although he sold my maidenhead, with time I took a liking to them, and my sun-and-stars made a queen of me. We were going to take the world on the silver mare he gave me, with the son we were supposed to have.”

Jon was shocked. Her features had fallen with grief. 

“After I lost them and my dragons were born, I was determined to move forward. I thought that if I looked back I was lost—that was told to me before, and I repeated it for a long time, trying not to look over my shoulder, to instead chase what was mine. Although I was later taken by a _khalasar_ against my will, I felt…at home again, and remembered who I am. _Zhey qoy qoyi_ means blood of my blood. I carry the women of the _dosh khaleen_ , my sun-and-stars and bloodriders, with me always. Even my half-mad brother.”

Her eyes flashed, hot. But she was oblivious to Jon’s reaction, as she rested her delicate head in her hand.

“Slaver’s Bay was not home, as much as I wished it to be, or willed it to be. The slaves made me their mother after I broke their chains, but the masters had supped on blood for centuries, uninterrupted. The people deserve more. But when I finally realized that region of the world is too old to fix itself, it was almost too late. I have my regrets, especially of Meereen. The masters of Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, even the noblemen of Volantis and Qarth, are vicious and without moral. Their slurs for me were inventive: dragon bitch, _Dothraki_ whore, queen of nothing, last of her name, and the ugliest, _Mhysa_ is a Master. Sometimes I think of blood splattered stones, of curses inscribed on the foundations of their pyramids. Meereen was sweltering and deadly, but it was beautiful on a clear day, overlooking the _Skahazadhan_. I wish you had seen it, Jon.”

She paused, suddenly sheepish. Jon smiled at her.

“I’ve had a number of aliases, myself. Bastard of Winterfell, _Lord Snow_ , King Crow, _King Jon_.”

She laughed. “Even King Jon has been a curse?”

“Aye. I think I favor King Crow the most. It is very disrespectful, you see. The many peoples of the free folk can wield words like throwing knives, children included.” He smiled again, thinking of Tormund’s daughters. “During the great ranging beyond the Wall, I met many people. I fought in so many battles, and was close to losing my life many times. Even after Stannis Baratheon smashed their army, someone always wanted to slit my throat, and so I attempted to keep to the Watch’s neutrality, hoping to save everyone from death. No matter their differences, all those lives add up: cannibalistic Thenns, spearwives and warrior men, treacherous men who suit themselves in bones, even Hornfoot men—”

“Hornfoot men?”

“They are just as you imagine."

Daenerys paused in disbelief. “Will they become my people?" 

“If you wish it.”

“I am sure, then, the realm has become more interesting.”

He laughed. “Indeed. But in all of that, I made a good friend in an older wilding fellow, Tormund Giantsbane. He is no King-Beyond-the-Wall, only a man who has the support of the people, as many swear by him. He has helped me keep the peace all along, and is helping Sansa in Winterfell right now. In my sworn brothers, too, I made a few friends.” He breathed their names in prayer. “Pip. Grenn. Sam. Dolorous Edd. Even Qhorin Halfhand. Lord Commander Mormont, too, if I could have ever called him a friend.”

Whenever Jon thought of the Night’s Watch he was always led to the traitor’s knives that had wounded him, of his life seeping into the snow, his flesh burning cold. _The Old Bear had suffered the same fate beyond the Wall._ However, Jon was startled by the sudden weight of Daenerys’s hand squeezing his. Even through his gloves, he could feel her warmth. 

“I know of what happened.”

Jon didn’t wish to speak of it. Instead he asked, “And you believe?” 

“When Lord Tyrion mentioned it to me I believed. When I saw you I knew for sure. But I wouldn’t despair, Jon.”  

“I was in nothingness for _days_ —there was _nothing_. Sometimes I think I never should have come back.”

“Some say death is cleaner. I think it would have been better for you to stay, but you _were_ rebirthed. Out of the darkness, you can better hold onto light. The Gods have fashioned you for something greater.”

“The Gods are cruel.”

“Do you believe in prophecy, then? Prophecies are words. Words are wind. Yet they came to me, again and again. As more time passes I believe them more, and I tire of them. I look over my shoulder, I look ahead. I close my eyes…and I see so much. I…wish not to dream tonight.”

Jon was floored. _Did she just tell me she…hears things, sees things?_ Sam had said their Queen was Mother of Dragons, steeped in magic and prophecy, which only reminded Jon of himself. Qhorin Halfhand and his ranging brothers had said he was a warg, having blood of the First Men. Even the skinchanger Varymyr Sixskins and Lady Melisandre had thought so of his wolf dreams. Jon was suddenly taken by a wave of heat; his gloves had become cloying so he peeled them off and hid his hands below the table, nervously tapping his fingers along his knees.

“Jon?”

Soot and ash took his nose again, tinged with the bitterness of another world, of light and life. _She is fire made flesh, and she will take me places._ He didn’t need to think about it, for he felt it: he would go anywhere with her, in the Known World and beyond. But he couldn’t tell her that. He could scarce look at her, afraid she would suddenly combust and take him with her. He wasn’t ready.

“Your grace…I’m afraid I must finish the letters I was working on when you arrived.” He gestured to his desk and the window above, filtering snow into his chambers. “I apologize.” 

“Of course. I am only sad our conversation was cut short.” He heard a sudden smirk in her voice. “Won’t you look at me?”

Jon chanced a glance. She was glowing.

“Do I make you uneasy?”

He couldn’t say anything. Nonetheless she knew. 

“I believe there would be a problem if I didn’t,” she mused. “Yet you aren’t running…”

“No,” he agreed.

“In any case, I didn’t mean to unload my burdens on you. I will keep my mouth shut, I swear it.”

For the second time that day Jon hid his face in his hands. “Please, you mustn’t.”

And her laugh filled the air again. He peeked at her through his fingers.

“Okay,” she said softly. “But if I dream, I do hope to see you.”

She moved to her feet, bowed her head to him, then took her leave. Jon watched her exit with a faint frown, recalling how her eyes had lingered on his burnt hand. But he soon remembered her parting words and wondered if she had dreamt of him before. The thought stirred him as much as it unnerved him, for her dreams seemed to be prophetic, if her burdens were true. 

Jon sighed. Wishing Ghost was with him, he returned to the desk and picked up the parchment that had fallen. By the time he had finished his letters, supper had come and the chill returned with the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)
> 
> EDIT: I'm taking a 2 or 3 day break to finish it up. 3 more installments, 3 more meetings, to come :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: This got a bit complicated, and so took more time than I thought it would. More weird shit, it’s a total spec piece! It’s on the long side so buckle up! Thanks for reading!
> 
> A/N 2: I send this out to you in prayer. Thanks for tapping me.

 

 

“Fall back!” 

Jon Snow’s voice was sharp from the cold that had gripped his throat, and tears were freezing on his cheeks. Nonetheless he gave the command again, and watched vapor rise into the air as he held tightly to his horse’s reins. _Giantsbane calls this a snow sky,_ he thought, glancing at the thick white sky. Mists were forming in the distance, thickening the humid swamps of the Neck. _This is where we will end our mission._ Over the rattling bones of the dead, Jon gave the call a third time. They were coming closer. _We’ve seen enough._  

Two days ago he had dispatched a small ranging party of twenty from the Twins of the Crossing and rode north, to search the countryside for wight activity. No more than five and twenty had appeared, exploding out of deep snowbanks, aiming to kill the closest living man. To their fortune, only Ser Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall had fallen to minor injury. Yet Jon was sure no one missed the irony. _These dead Freys may not remember their deaths, but in taking our lives they look for vengeance._

The men finally reined their spooked horses enough to turn them around. Then on Jon’s last call, they pushed their mounts back the way they had come. Past small inns that dotted the snow-capped terrain, the squat castles that straddled the Green Fork was where they were to be; to the Twins of the Crossing, where the Riverlands bordered the North.

 

*&*

 

Two moons had passed, and with it, the realm had fallen into a brief stint of chaos.

It started with a drop in temperature, which had even touched Dragonstone and from reports, the southernmost reaches of the Dornish marshes. The Wall hadn’t yet fallen, they were sure, for the realm would have already been pulled into darkness. Nonetheless, just as they predicted, the magic of the Others’ had reached far enough to raise the dead that hadn’t been burned. It just so happened that with the oncoming chaos, the unburned dead soon became high in numbers.

They heard of what was happening on the mainland of Westeros through correspondence only: incoming ice and snow storms were decimating the land, nearly freezing all rivers from the Green Fork to the Honeywine. Snowbanks were as deep as forty feet; even stablemen couldn’t keep their horses warm below wool blankets, and having harvested very little during the War of the Five Kings, the Riverlands was the most prone to famine. Most lords of the great houses had gathered at Dragonstone to rally with Queen Daenerys, but the few who had stayed in their holdfasts were privy to the storms and the terror it brought to their smallfolk. Some lesser lords welcomed them into their castles, others did not. Worst yet, in the bedlam, the outlaws of the brotherhood without banners made a final attempt on House Frey, and over three dark days, managed to take over the Twins. 

Sansa had just passed through the Bloody Gate to reach the Eryie when the storms hit the Riverlands and made the Vale merely impassible. After seeking shelter from her lord uncle, Edmure Tully, she turned tail and led her massive party to Riverrun. That is where Jon found her two weeks later. In the halls there were whispers of the brotherhood’s leader, a Lady Stoneheart. Some said she had perished in the attack on the Twins or perhaps in a storm, but no one knew for sure, so their whispers continued in mourning.

On their arrival, Sansa and Queen Daenerys had a meeting so pleasant Jon was mildly surprised. They took to each other like sisters, which delighted Jon more than he understood. When the time came to gather at the lord’s table, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Tyrion, Lord Howland, and Tormund decided what to do with their struggling households, having fled their uninhabitable homes. 

By then, however, the Queen had cast her eyes on the Twins. 

The Twins of the Crossing was one of the most formidable strongholds in the Seven Kingdoms and a famed river crossing of the Green Fork, a tributary of the Trident. When Robb had marched his host southward he’d needed the Freys’ acquiescence, as the Twins was the only crossing lying athwart the main route from Winterfell to Rivrrun. For that same reason, the Queen now needed it. Yet due to the brotherhood’s savagery, when they arrived all members of House Frey were dead or missing, but for the young Big Walder. The contempt the Frey’s had inspired was true, for no one mourned them.

Since then they struggled to house and feed the people of the land. To their fortune, the Queen and her liege Northern lords had their pick between Riverrun, the Twins, and the smaller holdfasts of Seagard, Oldstones and High Heart. Time was precious, so they quickly split their hosts: the nobleborn, fighting men, spearwives, and leading men of the freek folk took the larger keeps, and the young, the sick, the old and the lesser lords took the smaller ones. The Tyrells, Lords Paramount of the Reach, had harvested enough during the long summer to feed half of the realm for nearly a year. They sent half of their harvests. Princess Arianne saw to it that her people of Dorne sent what they could, about a third of their harvests. Even Lord Petyr sent out harvested delicacies from the Vale’s lush fields of autumn. _It is enough,_ Lord Tyrion had said as he counted barrels. _It must be._

Such was the sentiment Jon carried with him on return to the dreary Twins. As he walked the halls of the Water Tower to his chambers, the darkness that had soaked into the ugly stone walls made his skin prickle. He thought of blood-soaked rags that took days to dry, as they hung in the courtyard. _I wasn’t here to see what the brotherhood had done, but I can imagine what occurred in the slaughter._ Winter’s chill had reached his bones days ago, and so took some time to ebb away before the high fire in his chambers. With thoughts to report to the Queen and her council in the morning, he soon fell asleep.

Some time later he woke to Ghost’s howl _._ Sensing his ire, Jon left his chambers in the Water Tower and went down to the kennels at the base of the west castle. Ghost was pacing in his cage, quiet as a still snow. Jon opened the cage. He stared back.

“Ghost. What is it?” 

The direwolf quickly padded down the hallway. Jon gave a sigh of exasperation. Ghost took him through winding hallways, outside in the cold night, then up winding stairs to the main keep in the east castle. They climbed to the top level, then took a final corner to the Queen’s door. Jon only had one moment to narrow his eyes at Ghost, before he heard her screams. 

“ _No! Drogon! Stay!_ ”

He rapped his knuckles on the door. But her shouts continued, pitched with terror and rage. “ _STAY!_ ” Jon knocked steadily, and was soon banging on the door, wishing Daenerys would quiet down. _What will they think if she wakes the castle?_

_“DOWN!”_

“Daenerys! You must wake!”

He paused to press his ear to the door again, hearing nothing but his breaths. A moment later it suddenly clicked, and with a large _clang_ the great door opened, revealing the Queen. Jon quickly lowered his gaze, for he had not expected to see her in such an intimate state. _How is it that, whether covered in dust or the sweat of night terrors, she sings?_ Was he really a _boy_ again?

She said nothing. He only heard her panting breaths, then a hot, sharp intake of breath. He glanced at Ghost, who stood quietly behind him. Her eyes flicked between him and his direwolf. Then with an irritated breath, she pulled him inside and gestured Ghost to follow.

Jon stopped just inside the door. His head was swimming. Irritated as well, he spoke informally.

“Are you well?”

“I am, your grace. _Are you?_ You must have been concerned to come all this way.”

He bowed his head in apology. “I was, your grace. I think Ghost heard you.” 

The direwolf had taken a liking to the Queen, just as he had with Sansa, Lady Melisandre and Val. _Ygritte too, more like than not, if they had met._ He was aware of a pattern forming. Still, he had not wished to be woken so late in the evening. It seemed to matter none to Ghost, however, for the wolf padded over to the Queen and sniffed her hand. She gave an unexpected laugh.

“It is good to see you again, Ghost. I apologize for not visiting you lately.” 

“Should I leave you, then, your grace?” Jon asked, shifting uncertainly. The furs and sheets on her feather bed were thrown haphazardly, while the fireplace crackled lowly at the south wall. The air was edged sharply by something Jon could not place, had not known. Yet it chafed at his nose. He flexed his sword hand.

The Queen stopped before him and covered his hand with hers. “Jon.” She gestured to the small table a few steps away. “Please, sit.”

“I do not wish to sit. I must sleep, Daenerys. I only wished to see you were safe.”

“Forgive me. I heard of your return as soon as you arrived. You must be exhausted.” 

“I am.” He swayed on his feet when another wave hit him. He snapped his fingers to Ghost. “I will deliver the news to you and your council in the morning, your grace.”

When they reached the door, she spoke again. 

“I’ve been waiting for that.”

He paused, turned to her in question.  

“You called me Daenerys.” 

He blinked. “You’ve been _waiting_?”

“I am only a young girl.”

Jon surprised himself with an outright laugh. “My queen, you are anything but a _girl_.”

Yet she seemed preoccupied as she stepped to him again. He wanted to ask her of her dream, of why she had been screaming for the black dragon. _Her child_. But he paused when she stopped before him. 

She tilted her face up, violet eyes shining hot. “You are right. I am no gentle queen. But see, your grace, I wish for you to call me by my name. Won’t you?”

He didn’t think. He only wanted. 

“Daenerys.”

“Again.”

“ _Daenerys._ ”

Suddenly he had his hands full of her, palming her, bracing her against his frame as her lips parted under his and he moaned. _We are doing this. Finally._ Her hands were everywhere, small and firm and sensual, palming his shoulders, gripping the curls around his ears, running down his sides and seeking skin. He felt Ghost’s large presence padding out of the way as they stumbled to her bed, lips pressed in a tight lock, so good and light and warm.

Breathy, pleasure, she said his name against his lips. He held her down on the feather bed, hoping to burrow into her heat and chase away her dreams, whatever they may be. But he only managed to pull her gown askew enough to trace his lips across her collarbone, before sleep called to him. As he drifted off, her hand was petting his black curls back, and her voice was in his ear. 

“ _You are him…_ ”

 

\-- 

 

The first time Jon stepped into the great hall of the Twins, he was gripped by a pain he hadn’t felt in a long time. He took in the pews, the contrasted areas of wall that had once been covered by House Frey tapestries, and the tables where he knew Robb and Lady Catelyn had perished, in spite of guest right. At the helm of the hall stood the seat of the Lord of the Crossing: a thick, tall chair of black oak, the back of which was carved into the shape of two towers joined by an arched bridge. _That is where Lord Walder perished._ But he had felt oddly numb to the thought. He avoided the great hall as much as he could the first few days, until he caught Sansa doing the same.

As he entered the hall the next stormy morning, Jon was instead preoccupied with thoughts of the Queen—of heart-racing arousal, of happiness, and a nervous desire to catch her flicking at the helm of the hall. He saw Sansa’s deep auburn hair, so reminiscent of her Tully mother, and squeezed her shoulder. She smiled pleasantly in greeting. Seating himself, Jon joined his advisors, a few of whom he could gratefully call friends. Yet as he dug into his food, he could not escape their gazes.

“Sleep well, you grace?” asked Ser Davos.

Jon nodded, and threw an offhand glance at the Great Table as he bit into his food. Daenerys was inched toward Lord Tyrion, discussing something that had taken their eyes to the south of the hall. Lord Ryman Manderly sat with one of his household knights, two house guards, and Lord Harrion Karstark and his party. 

“Are you ready for tonight’s meeting?” asked Sam. “The lords talk.”

“For good or bad?” Jon prompted, knowing the answer. “I don’t care for murmurs and whispers. Tonight they will show what they think, one way or the other.”

Ser Davos hushed his voice. “The plan is set. Only a fool would think otherwise.” 

“Fools will wish to hold onto their lands, their fleets, and their families. It is normal. But the realm has become anything but normal, anything but reasonable.” He sighed. “I fear they won’t answer my call.”

The hall suddenly filled with an uproar from the lords’ table. The plump Lord Manderly had stood from his table, and made a threatening gesture to Lord Harrion. 

“My entire bloody city was _abandoned._ We struggled to evacuate, yet you sent no aid! White Harbor is the heart of the North, boy!”

“Hold your tongue, my lord! Karhold holds no allegiance to you! You should have expected nothing! You can make no threats to me!”

“You _boy_! You sat on your arse when Roose Bolton and his bastard laid waste to the North and you sat on your arse again when the storms came in. _Sun of Winter?_ Har! Karstark ended with the death of your lord father and is now as dark as the snows pushing in!”

With a sharp _twat_ swords were drawn and voices raised. Jon moved to his feet, feeling for Longclaw. “Your filth ends here!” cried Lord Harrion.

“No matter!” The hall stilled. All heads turned to Lord Tyrion. “You Northern lords have abandoned home and given your people to others to house, fortunately without cost to your coin, I might add. It is done, my lords. I believe you had best forget your grievances in the new age we embark on, before the fates of the lords of the Trident is your own.” The Southron lord knocked the table twice. “House Frey included.” 

Jon closed his eyes, incensed, as voices rose again. Everyone knew that Lord Manderly had struggled to evacuate White Harbor when the storms came. He had called upon the lords of the Shivering Sea for additional ships to move his people, to which all but the Karstarks of Karhold had responded. _It seems that even now, we are weakened by remembered betrayals._  

He looked to the great table again. Queen Daeneyers was watching the commotion with calm eyes. She met Jon’s gaze and quirked her brow. 

“No swords!” he cried, moving into the quarrel. “No knives! My lords, separate. You must move!”

He pushed through house guards and shouldered past Lord Manderly’s household knight and shoved Lord Harrion away, opting not to unarm him. Heavy eyes were on Jon, hot and furious.

“We have not gathered here to fight amongst ourselves, nor to further _decimate_ our numbers. You already know of my ranging party’s findings. They are coming. Do not forget.” He gripped Lord Harrion’s shoulder. “My friend, look to the Southron lords,” he said, gesturing to the gathered lords and ladies paramount of the other six kingdoms. Queen Asha Greyjoy, Princess Arianne Martell, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Edmure Tully, even Lady Olenna and Lady Maergery Tyrell had gathered at Daenerys’s behest. They were watching, intrigued. “They do not quarrel. Even if you still wish to, save it until we defeat the Others _,_ if you live to see the day.”

His pleasant mood had evaporated. Even as he shoved Lord Harrion away and the lord’s eyes flashed, Jon knew he was being foolish. To his fortune, he narrowly avoided another knife stabbing by Sansa’s controlling interruption.

“King Jon does not speak out of turn,” said the Lady of Winterfell. “He is only reminding you of what we must not forget. My lords, please save your rage for the wars to come.”

Enough time had passed that the rage ebbed away from the room. Murmurs filled the air as guards, knights and lords shifted about, returning to their earlier positions. Jon returned to his table, and his cousin’s ire.

“Cousin.” Her eyes said, _Jon._ “That was _stupid_.”

He ignored that. “We are not ready.” 

“Do you believe so?”

“Aye. We can only hope for the best tonight.”  

But Sansa had more hope than Jon did at the moment. Her azure eyes flitted around the hall, noting them all. “I will speak to who I can today. We must keep their ears open to the truth.”

“I wish you luck,” he said, giving her a tired wave. Sam gripped his arm in comfort. He nodded to his friend. “I will do my part.”

As their meal ended and the lords started to filter out of the hall, Jon felt the Queen’s violet gaze on his person. He waited for most of the hall to empty, then he went before her, clasping his hands at his back and bowing his head to her. He felt a flush at his neck as he recalled the night before.

“Did you call for me, your grace?” 

“I have something to show you.” Her smile was genuine, for it made no point to hide its scorching beauty. “Come with me.” 

She brought him to the handmaidens’ den, in the east castle’s second level. Her Dothraki handmaidens, and some of Sansa’s own from Winterfell had gathered around, and were holding aloft various pieces of wardrobe for all occasions. Jon frowned with discomfort at the sheer number of articles, but found he enjoyed Daenerys’s choice of dark coloring and minor decorative trimmings for him.

“Sansa helped me design these pieces for you. I believe you can see the Stark and Targaryen features. Are they to your liking?”

Jon rubbed his mouth with his burnt hand. “It is more than I know what to do with, but aye, I like it.”

“You are my royal consort,” Daenerys reasoned, “and king by all means but marriage. Your wardrobe must fit the title.”

“I understand. But I believe I do not have to like it, much.”

“Jon…” 

A handmaiden turned from the table with a shining crown. It looked nothing like the crown of red gold wrought with pointed flames that Stannis Baratheon had placed on his head. Nor like Robb’s rumored crown of bronze surmounted by nine black iron spike and cut with runes of the First Men. Nor did it look like Aegon the Conqueror’s crown of Valyrian steel, incised with nine square cut rubies. The crown the Queen had fashioned for him was of the same material as her own silver circlet of a three-headed dragon, eyes dotted of jade, ivory and onyx—but his differed vastly in design. The open silver circlet was hammered into the shape of seven longswords, incised at the front with a pair of dragon wings and three runes of the First Men, and the hilt of each sword was capped with jade, ivory or onyx.

Much of it was suddenly too real. Whether blood of the dragon or the Kings of Winter, Jon still felt every bit a Snow as he had growing up in Winterfell. The crown was overwhelming, even upsetting.

“Getting the materials took some time,” she said, “but once the smiths had what they needed, they fashioned it quickly.” 

Numb, Jon stated the obvious. “You want me to wear it.”

 “Is something wrong?” she asked, amused. “You will wear the crown, Jon, starting tonight.” 

He refused. “Place what you will in my chambers. But leave the crown. I will not wear it.”

Before she could say anything he exited the den. He had only made it halfway down the brisk hall when he heard the Queen following him. He made no attempt to stop her, knowing full well he could not. He quickened his steps through the east castle then slipped outside. Though bitter cold slashed at his face, he heard her call out to him and he managed a laugh. _This chasing is fun._ He finally turned around, quickly enough to catch her wrap her cloak about herself irritably. 

“My queen?” 

She glared at him. “Must I follow you so far?”

“Perhaps,” he granted, tilting his head. 

“You are being unreasonable.”

“I will not wear that crown.”

“It will do far more good for everyone else than it will do you harm. What is wrong? And where are you going? It is _snowing_.”

“Aye, it is,” he laughed, stepping to her. “But it matters none to me. You are every bit _Essosi_ as you are the rightful Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, aren’t you, Dragon Queen? Or should I say _Khaleesi_?”

“Hold your tongue, my lord!” She gasped. “I hadn’t expected such passion from you. I am _pleased_.”

 _That’s what they have all said, isn’t it?_ Sometimes Jon had even surprised himself, but he was always pleased. He’d found that a woman’s love kept him warm and a woman’s trust kept him whole. _Maester Aemon was right about that part. I would have broken my vows for Daenerys too._ As if the Gods had heard, a gush of wind sent nearly a foot of snow upon them, from where Jon did not know. He searched for her in the suspended whiteness, until he felt her. _Still she seeps into my gloves._ Once he pulled her in, the closer she came. 

“My somber king comes to me,” she murmured, sweet as lemon cakes. “Or perhaps away. He will not wear the crown I have fashioned for him, and he won’t tell me why. Where is he going at this hour?" 

“Daenerys, I am not _somber._ And before you say anything else, I do not _brood_. Lastly, I must tend to a few ravens I received this morning, in my chambers. You may follow if you wish, though I believe you have a meeting soon with your council?” 

He held her gaze, reluctant to let her in, even as he hoped to keep her with him. She took to it like a challenge, smirking.  

“I believe they can wait.”

That was how they became the sight for every eye between the east castle and the Water Tower: Jon, the man, with whom the Queen tucked her arm, as they strolled the halls to his quarters. They said nothing, for the fear they may be overheard, until the great door to his chambers closed behind them.

She cast her eyes around the room, taking in the quickly made featherbed, the towers carved onto the four posts, and the small table nearby, upon which a pitcher of ale rested. A low fire in the east wall crackled with a subtlety that reminded him of the woman before him. Her steps echoed as she stepped into the room, silver-blonde hair billowing about her shoulders as she looked around.

“Are these chambers to your liking? They were previously for Lord Walder’s guests.”

“Yes.” He nodded to the amenities. “I especially enjoy the bed. However, I believe I grew accustomed to having you near at Dragonstone. The east castle is…far.”

“It is,” she agreed. “I wanted you away, but not this far.” She tilted her head at him. “Do you remember what I said about being a young girl, my king?” 

Jon had to smile. “Aye. I take no offense, your grace.”

She stopped before his bed, looking at something. He stepped further into the room. The fur-trimmed cloak Jon had donned from Winterfell to Castle Black had been dyed in the black of the Night’s Watch. Jon had retrieved it from the trunk of his keepsakes the day before he’d left for the ranging party. He’d sat with it for hours, remembering, mourning, and thinking of the storms to come. The cloak was in the shadows, and so had escaped his notice. Only when he saw the Queen gazing at it, did he realize he would have stashed it away if he’d known it was out. Yet he was unsure of why.

Her gaze then went to Jon, looking at him and perhaps through him. Clenching his burnt palm, he took a step to her then paused. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he could not. In a flurry of movement, she crossed the room to him and took his gloved palms in her bare ones.

“Graces, lords and merchant kings have said I am a gentle queen—on occasion. But I am filled with the dragon’s fury. Jon, _you are good_ , you are gentle. The crown is yours because it is your birthright and because you say so. You are not a bastard, you are not a lord commander, and you are not a prince. You are _king._ The crown is yours.”

“Aye, you may have guessed right. These days I still flinch when called _king._ Despite my blood, your brother is not my father, and I can barely hold claim to _Stark_. I feel no less a bastard than I did as a child.” He shook his head. “But Daenerys, I know not what you see. I have scars. I have battle armor. And there, rests a boy’s cloak. What more am I than any man partaking in the fight for life?”

A moment passed as she pondered his words, before she nodded in understanding. Faintly surprised, Jon glanced at his hands, watching her peel one glove off and then the other. They dropped to the floor. He glanced at her eyes, then to their hands, the burnt one which she palmed gently. 

“I have never been this cold in my life,” she murmured. “The winter winds make my dreams darker. You are cold.” 

“I always am. You are warm.” 

She met his eyes, and he smiled. She gave a small smirk, looking down again.

“Is that why you dreamt of Drogon?”

“Yes…” she murmured. “I was…remembering an unfortunate moment with him. I have not forgotten what it means to be afraid. I fear loss most of all.” 

He clenched a hand, and felt her curl around him. She met his gaze again. Jon smiled, feeling more gentle than he had in a long time.

“You will not lose me. All of my days are yours.”

Her eyes were soft. “I fear I won’t have many of them. Our days are numbered.”

“Until the last, then,” Jon vowed hotly, taking her hands. “ _Bride of Fire_ , I am yours, you are mine.”

“Yes.” She kissed him soundly, once, twice, then pulled away too soon. “How did you know of _Bride of Fire_?”

“It only just came to me.”

Daenerys took her hand to her mouth, shocked. 

“What?”

“Jon…”

“What?” he chuckled, pulling her flush. He peeled the top of her gown open, exposing her collarbone and shoulder. Dragging one palm down her soft side, he pressed his lips to her skin and heard her gasp. He felt her gripping his arm, running a palm down his back—she was hot everywhere. As she raised her arm around his shoulders and pulled herself close, he took her lips.

“I knew it all along,” she murmured, placing her lips at his jaw. “You would know. It is real. You are him.”

He nosed along her neck, hands feeling for her hips. “I am who?”

He would have noticed that she never answered, if not for the distracting nature of their union. Her excitement and pleasure spurred him on, and he wanted to give all she could take. In moments they had stripped him of his vest of boiled leather and were working on his tunic—and her outer gown tumbled about their ankles, revealing fire-touched skin below her smallclothes. He tore at her smallclothes and she tore at his trousers. They couldn’t make it to the bed, so they settled for nearby table. Daenerys’s laugh filled his ears and lungs as she adjusted herself and he placed the pitcher on the floor. With a meeting of hips they moaned with their union, fingers digging into flesh, muscles quivering. Then with the first thrusts Jon was enveloped by soft heat and his Queen’s belly-deep cries.

“Ah!” she screamed, partly in pleasure, partly in exasperation. “We must move.”

She was right. Jon felt exquisitely alive as he withdrew and pulled her into a deep kiss, palming her breast. With a light moan she opened to him, and before they knew it he had thrust into her again. Quickly they were back where they began, so on shaking legs they moved to his bed. He wrapped her in his arms, delighting at her laugh and fingers tapping his shoulders, as he rolled them around the large bed. Finally stopping, he nosed into her hair then met her eyes, gentle and open and swimming in flame.

Pushing into her again, feeling her open to him, moving with him, feeling her quiver in pleasure, he murmured in her ear, “You are my bride.”

“Yes!”

He groaned. “And what am I, my queen?”

“My king. The comely man in my dreams.”

“Oh,” Jon chuckled. “Is that so?”

She laughed. “I will explain later. You may not believe, but I will explain nonetheless.” She leaned up into his kiss, breathless. He’d slowed his pace. He brushed the hair from her face, gazing upon her, and felt her hands gripping, holding him tightly. Soon the bed was shaking again, but they knew not. They rolled around in their union, until the furs had fallen off and they were sticky, finally sated. 

She peppered kisses across his cheek, his brow bone, down his nose and to his lips, as he dozed, holding her tightly to his side.

“Daenerys…” he whispered, stroking her thigh. “I feel you always, but you do not know it. I smell you always. You are _fire_.”

“Made flesh, I know.”

“No.” His eyes popped open. “ _Fire._ ” 

She frowned, bemused. “Now who sounds silly, my king?”

He shook his head with a rueful grin. She kissed him deeply as she held his jaw, thumb gently stroking his beard. He peeled his eyes open and watched her touch him. It was on his tongue. _Soot and ash._ He wanted to take her again. But just as he swooped in to claim her lips, she scratched at his scalp and he pulled back. She kept her hand in his curls and pushed them back, giving her his bemused expression. There was a soft smile on her lips.

“You will wear the crown, Jon.” She was firm as ever. “It suits you.”

“Must I?”

“You must.”

As much as he loathed to do so, her nearness filled him with excitable joy. He earned her surprised laugh when he tackled her to the bed.

“As my queen commands.”

“The time has come for us to show our strength among our people, as they are _our_ people. The meeting will fare better with our united front. We must not forget the world we’ve begun to forge with the coming wars. It is the world we must return to.”

“I understand.” He gazed upon her again, mildly disbelieving. Her fingers stroked his side and arm, stoking the flame that was as much his as hers. “Tonight will come too soon.”

“It will…” she said. “No matter…”

Minutes passed as they lay caressing, choosing to wade in the waters of their arousal. He kissed her until the room froze without a fire, at which point it was time for them to return to their duties. The idea of separation only spurred them on again, but with so little time and even less warmth, they clothed themselves and readied their appearances. Daenerys stayed only long enough to watch Jon start a fire, touching his neck, squeezing his shoulder and arm as she stood behind him. Then she pulled away, murmuring, “I will see you soon.”

Jon kissed her palm then watched her leave. He stared into the fire until he’d warmed enough. Then he placed his Night’s Watch cloak back into his trunk and turned to the letters that were waiting for him. Nothing had happened. Lesser Northern lords staying in the smaller holdfasts of the Riverlands had only asked for more rations, more supplies, more guards for the wildlings, more everything. After the last letter, Jon gave a weary sigh. He gazed at the thick snow filtering into his chambers until the sky had gone dark with the night. Then with a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, then headed to Sansa’s chambers, which were also in the Water Tower. He found her alone, tending to a detailed embroidered piece, and the first thing he said was, “The Queen and I…” 

Sansa smiled, as though she already knew. He frowned. “Did she tell you?”

Sansa had the decency to flush. “Yes.”

 _When did she have the time for that?_ Daenerys was full of surprises. He took his cousin’s invitation to sit. In the last hour before the meeting they talked of Jon and the Queen, and then Sansa’s findings from her day speaking with their lords. It was enough to give Jon hope. When the time came he escorted her to the east castle. As she took her seat with their usual party Jon went to great table. Before the official inception of the meeting, the gathered lords watched Queen Daenerys place Jon’s crown on his head. Cheers erupted. Jon took his seat beside her. Then with a pronouncement from the Queen, they began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story totally changed on me. After some ruminating, 5 times he smiles made more sense than 5 times he smiles and 1 time he doesn't. So the last chapter will be up very soon! :) And who knows, maybe I'll make very much un-smiling outtake. That would be fun. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. I’ve finally finished the last chapter of this adventure. It’s dialogue heavy with basically two long scenes. I don’t believe I’ve done chapters like that before, so I’m inclined to apologize if it’s not readable. I think it’s a good way to end Five Times since it hasn't been updated in how long...? XD But definitely let me know if it isn’t. 
> 
> In any case, I hope happy Jon and Dany are to your liking. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 FIVE

The rocking of the ship made it quite difficult for the task Jon tended to. It rocked to the right, splashing water from the basin onto his boots. A low chuckle built in his throat as he cupped another bit of boiled water into his palm. The ship rocked to the left, easing in his effort to splash water onto his beard. The water trickled through the dark hairs, rinsing away the juices that had dried there some time before. He did it again then wiped his dry hand through, testing it for cleanliness. _Almost there._ No matter how much he rinsed his beard, however, he would taste her on his tongue for hours, if not days. 

It was good that she loved it, too, because he would have a hard time stopping. 

Small arms draped about his waist, pulling him flush to warm breasts. Dany pressed her lips to his bare shoulder blade, and earned a shiver that racked down his spine. Her voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the constant pull of waves below.

“I can tend to the fire if you’re cold.”  

“You keep me warm enough, Dany.”

He felt the smile on her lips when buried her face in his skin. He wouldn’t be surprised she felt his heart beating wildly for her.

They had melted into one another many times since they’d boarded _Mermaid’s Tale_. Enough times, in fact, to start rumors among their allies and bannermen. But it mattered none to the pair, because they were almost delirious with their union. _And it is our right to be as loud as we wish,_ thought Jon, _now that we’ve wed._ Daenerys seemed to be thinking the same—he thought—when she turned him around. Rolling to the tips of her toes she gave him her lips, warm and soft and his.

“You, my king, are a masterful lover. You taste like _mine_.”

He chuckled and let her drape herself about him. They stood there, pressed skin to skin in a tight embrace, until a sharp rock nearly knocked them to the floor. 

“The seas are getting rough.” She had moved to the pile of clothing on their feather bed, sorting through what was hers and his. “A storm is coming right as we near Bear Island. Should we take it as an omen?” 

He huffed. “We should take every storm as an omen, until winter passes and we see the sun again.”

She gave him a dark look. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s only a matter of time.” 

“You’re a Stark of Winterfell,” she laughed, as she pulled on her smallclothes. “You would be the first to know if the sun disappears, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” he glared, amused.

 “I’m not.” She helped him pull his trousers over his muscled bottom, then gave it a quick slap. “I swear it.” 

“You seem to swear often, my queen. I’m less inclined to believe you each time.” 

She didn’t seem to care because she didn’t reply, but for a small smirk that graced her beautiful face. _Still can’t believe I’m here again,_ he thought, overwhelmed, _but deeper_.

After dispatching their fighting men from the Twins and Riverrun, they had set sail on the Sunset Sea a little more than a week ago. The journey from the western shores of the Riverlands to Bear Island had been smooth but for a few rocky hours of the kind they experienced now. They had taken the time to do their duty as King and Queen to appease their constituents, but more importantly, to pleasure each other and their deepening affection. Sometimes Jon woke before she did, and watched her sleep with the awe of a man in love. Sometimes he even woke to her stroking his hair from his face with soft violet eyes, and when he opened his, she would kiss his nose and tell him to return to sleep. They only left their cabin for essentials: to eat, to speak with their captain about the seas, and to speak with their knights onboard for wight activity in the water.

So far they had fared well enough that Jon, ever the realist, worried what their fleet would find at Bear Island.

She distracted him well from his worries, however, by the brush of her lips as she took his hand and kissed the fingertips. As his eyes widened, locked on hers, his other hand palmed her hip—and the world lit aflame in bright yellows and whites.

“I love you.”

Though it wasn’t the first time she said it, it felt like it was. 

“I love you,” he returned.

She smiled, then moved to the pile in which his boiled armor and mail laid. As she picked up the latter to place about him first, he wanted to say that she hadn’t even finished with her gown yet. But she was persistent. Soon his boiled vest was strapped about his torso, and she smiled with satisfaction. Before she could embarrass him further, he pulled her in, dragging kisses down her neck as he palmed her bottom. When she moaned, he guided his hips to hers and rolled them once, twice…until she groaned.

Between all their layers, they couldn’t feel anything, but it was enough for him. After giving her a lingering kiss, he reached for her corset. She cursed at him as he strung her into it and chuckled under his apologies. Then he wrapped her smoky winter gown about her and set a three-headed dragon pin above her heart. When he was finished, she was nearly blushing.

The ship rocked again. Just beyond their cabin door the captain bellowed: “Land ho!”

Jon walked to the windows that faced the mast of the ship. Just beyond their fleet, the wooded silhouette of Bear Island began to take shape below a veil of mist and thick snow. A raven landed on the arm of one of the captain’s men; then the song of unsheathed, naked metal pierced the air. Turning, Jon found Dany before the dresser, gazing at Longclaw in her hands.

Jon never forgot that the longsword once belonged to another. He was reminded once again when she said, “Once we dock at Bear Island, I’ll see Ser Jorah for the first time, since before I landed on Dragonstone. All I wanted for him, since our journey through the Red Waste, was to return his home to him.” 

“You have.”

“But why do I feel sad?”

“Well…you’ve forgiven him, which means you’ll miss him. He was your knight, after all?”

Brow quirked, she laughed. “Did Lord Tyrion tell you?” 

“He didn’t have to.” When she frowned, he shook his head. “I am grateful to know you had someone like Ser Jorah by your side. Just as I am grateful to all who helped me get _here_.”

Her eyes lingered on his, then went to the sword. The Valyrian steel gave off such a shine that it reflected even in the dull light of their cabin. With one hand on the hilt, the other trailed down the length of it.

“Would he want his sword?” Jon asked. He’d wondered many times and almost thought he could return it to the Mormont knight.

“He shouldn’t,” Dany answered. “Don’t give it to him. It was the right punishment for selling slaves.”

“In that case… You should put it away.” 

“I’m not afraid of a sword, Jon.” 

Her words meant many things, considering the battlefront their fleet was setting to embark on the island in the Bay of Ice. What was a Valyrian sword compared to _dragonflame_? Plus, with the odds of the Wall falling before they even made it beyond, to Dany a mere cut could not compare for the battle ahead. Despite these assurances, however, Jon was aware of something else lilting below her tone; something that didn’t feel right.

He took the sword from her then replaced Longclaw in its sheath. Jon said nothing, only pulled her in closely and closed his eyes once her arms came around him. He rested his chin on her head and said, “I’ll ask one final time. Are you sure about letting Ser Jaime free?”

“Yes.” Her breath billowed on his neck, like the warmest Summer snow. “I trust that woman of his to be right about him. In the end, they have another pair of Valyrian swords we’ll need beyond the Wall.”

He only wanted to make sure her argument hadn’t changed, because he didn’t want her to be angry with herself if the Kingslayer did anything unsavory in their camp. _Like attack one of my cousins._ Yet so far, Ser Jaime had kept to himself and his knight of a woman, Lady Brienne, so Jon said nothing, choosing to trust Dany’s judgment.

They held on tight until, with one last rock, _Mermaid’s Tale_ finally dropped her anchor in the Bay of Ice.

 

\--

 

Bear Island was forever frosted land, thick with dense trees he’d only seen in groves north of the Wall. Remote, too. Even the air was different—cold as it was at the Wall, or everywhere these days, but still and sound. As if the waters of the bay had buffered the overgrown chaos on the other shore. _If only that were the case,_ Jon thought. _Free Folk and Ironmen raided the Mormonts for centuries, and made them what they are: bears. Even their women fight._ But he knew what the difference was today.

Last time he’d come with Sansa to negotiate the Mormont heir’s support, he’d noticed it then. But not as much as this day. _Magic is in the air._ His ears rang with it, his skin prickled with it. Only the white desert of the land beyond the Wall and Dragonstone had made him feel such a way. In any case, they had a plan to carry out; so that is what he sought to do.

Men filtered onto the island from small but well-made hovels, then climbed up hills locked in ice, until they reached the Seat of Mormont; an ancient log hall. Mounted on horses, Jon counted them off with Lady Lyanna’s extra set of eyes for assistance. Ser Davos and Tormund were with them for additional viewing; for, these days, every moment to strategize had to be taken. 

“That’s eight hundred and two thousand, Snow.”

He glanced at Tormund. His audacious smirk bloomed below the flaming beard, eyebrows curling thickly. “I didn’t know you were counting. Lady Lyanna, is he right?”

“He is,” she smiled, nodding to the Wildling man.

“You’ve gotten better, Tormund.” 

“I have. What’s it to yer?”

Jon only shook his head, then returned to his counting. Nearly half were Northmen come to fight, but there were mounted knights and soldiers from every reach in _Westeros_ and beyond, all shivering deep in their layers. Even the Free Folk looked haggard. Jon could almost hear the rattling of their bones—but chose not to joke about such a thing, given that with great familiarity, he knew the true sound of the dead. As if it heard, the wind picked up, and he tightened his hold on the reins. The clouds were thickening and the afternoon sun was waning above the Wall. A league away, there were still dozens more hovels arriving at the docks.

“They should move faster,” he frowned. “I don’t like the look of the sky.”

Tormund fell into trouble with his skittering horse. With a grunt, he tightened the reins and bit, “It’s a snow sky. They’d bloody well HURRY UP! YOU LAZY FUCKERS, OFF THE BOATS AND INSIDE! LOOK AT THAT SKY!”

 Half a dozen knights of the Vale stopped before them, their pale blue capes flapping in the wind.

“Why are you looking at me?” Jon snapped. “Go inside, you lot!” 

“You’re not our king, Snow! We take no orders from you.”

From Jon’s left, Ser Davos chimed in. “Do you think it’ll matter who your king is if you’re still out here when the sun sets, you idiots? Have you not seen enough of the fuckers to know when they’re coming?” 

Their faces remained disgruntled. And were now blank.

“The fucking snows!” Tormund bellowed.

Jon communicated to him to _shut up_ with his gaze alone. Jaw clenched, the Wildling then walked his horse a few yards away. There his voice picked up again, as he shouted orders for the men and spearwives to hurry in. Jon turned to the Valemen, who now looked confronted.

“If I ever have to remind you of your allegiance to the Crown again, your lord will be very unhappy.” Their faces told he needn’t say more. “Go inside, _now_.”

The men nearby had heard enough that once the Valemen left, they picked up their pace enough to start a steady flow. The frozen mud was treacherous, however, so on occasion someone slipped onto their arse, dragging a few others with them. It came to the point that, while yelling for them to hurry, Jon, Ser Davos and Tormund unmounted to help fallen men to their feet. 

Most Northmen were grateful, even kind to their king—though still confused as to how he could be King in the North _and_ Protector of the Realm.

(The time would soon come to straighten it out.)

But ever since becoming Daenerys’s royal consort and later hers in marriage, Jon struggled with the great lords and their bannermen. The Ironmen would never respect him, but the Greyjoys would yield to him. The Southron flowers of the Reach would never understand his Northern ways, but the Tyrells would respect him. He also had the favor of the Riverlords with Lord Edmure Tully’s blessing. The only ones he still quarreled with were Valemen and of course, the straggling Lannister knights they scraped up from the Westerlands. To his fortune, Daenerys was growing a strong relationship with the Dornish, mainly from Princess Arianne’s friendship, so that was the best, most surprising outcome. 

Jon was aware that even with the Great War upon them, politics remained as usual. Which meant that loose ends could get someone he loved killed. _Never again,_ he vowed once more. _Never again._ Soon after, he remounted his horse with the others and continued counting. _Seven hundred and three thousand…_

“Can you believe, Snow…?” said Tormund. “We’ve been here before.”

There was the shore, the men, and the log hall awaiting them…

“Aye, we have. But not to our fortune.”

He shook his head, recalling it all. _Nor to my fortune, especially._

“Aye, what they did to you, I’ll never forget. Nor the part afterward, or the shitty haircut the Red Woman gave you. “

“Shut it.”   

Tormund laughed and nodded to him. “I’ll be straight with yer. It was a long while before things went to shit at Castle Black. Though that Baratheon fellow—“

“He was a king, Tormund.”

“Worse I ever saw. All he was good for was slashing our army into nothin’. But then he burned Mance alive. That’s no king to me.”

 _You may be a bag of wind and lies, but you have me there._ Jon inclined his head. 

“Though that Baratheon fellow _burned_ men alive, that was the safest all the Free Folk had been in _months._ When you took us further south and your sister housed us, we were safe. Even when we go beyond that cracking piece of icy shit, we’ll be safer than we’d have ever been if you hadn’t let us in. You gave us a choice when we didn’t have none, Snow.”

Jon frowned. “What are you saying, Tormund?”

“What do you think I’m sayin’? This plan o’ yours is going to work.”

_Nine hundred and three thousand…_

His horse skittered again. Instead of tightening the reins Jon pressed his palm to the mare’s long neck and patted, trying to calm her. With so little food the past few moons, she was skin and bones. If she couldn’t perform as they needed, they would probably slaughter her and put her in a stew. Not wishing this fate for her, he continued to calm her the best he could.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, Tormund.” He glanced at Lady Lyanna and caught her gaze. “Do you have as much hope for our plan?”

“I told you once before, and I’ll tell you again, your grace.” Her mouth was turned into a hard frown, but her brown eyes were bright. “If we don’t do this _today_ , we’ll have lost all leverage in this war. It’s not likely that we’ll lose all fifty thousand men during our ranging beyond the Wall. But even if we do…if we manage to slay the Night’s King, it won’t have been for nothing.”

“It would mean everything,” said Ser Davos, nodding to her.

“Well…” Jon frowned deeply at the sudden feeling blooming in his chest. “Fissures and all, the Wall still stands. This is our only chance. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t…” 

“Whoever makes it out will try again." 

Jon’s lips cracked into a smile of hope, and lasted long into the silence as their counting continued.

Tormund laughed suddenly, loud enough to echo through the falling snow. “And that Queen o’ yours has _dragons._ I’ll be telling meh daughters, and their sons, and their daughters…Hell, if I could live so long I’d spend the rest of meh days telling stories about those _fucking dragons._ ” He turned his impish grin on Jon. “You know how to pick ‘em, eh, Snow? You’re a lucky man.”

Jon could only chuckle under his breath. Inching closer, Tormund lowered his voice.

“Val would have been proud of you. Ygritte would have wanted something simpler for yer—”

Jon glared at him for bringing up his lost loves.

“But she would have been proud, too.”

With a frown tugging at his lips, Jon rubbed at his brow with a cold, gloved finger. “A day never goes by that I don’t miss them.”

“But you love her?”

 _He is always the one to ask,_ Jon mused, surprised to realize he had such a friend. He nodded in answer. Tormund searched his face, then pulled back. When he turned his way again, the grin had returned. _Three hundred and four thousand…_

“I ever tell you about the she-bear I laid with? Fine one, she was.”

Jon chuckled, recalling the story Tormund had shared before the fire. Ygritte had been at Jon’s side, rolling her eyes at Tormund’s lies. It was the night before they’d reached the Wall…before he chose to return to the Night’s Watch.  

“Of course, you have,” he snorted. “ _There was a woman lived close by, a fine and strong woman I’d laid with before. I thought about her so much, after me member got so hard, I couldn’t take it—”_

“Har!”

_“So I wrapped meself in furs and set out to find her. But the snows were so deep I got turned round twice, till I found her. She was tough as I remembered, had a fine temper too. But when I got me hands on her all I could do was bring her right home and get her out o’ them furs. Boy, when I did, she was hotter than I remembered…”_

“Alright, alright. You can stop.”

“Why?” Jon asked, eyeing the flush at his cheeks. “Are you _embarrassed_?”

“I wasn’t going to tell the bloody story,” Tormund groused. “I was only going to ask the little lady where her mother is.”

Their company stilled. Even their horses stopped pawing at the ground. All eyes turned to the lady in question. _No,_ thought Jon. Now was not the time for such revelations. However, he was interrupted by another arrival that took everyone’s attention. Jon had been busy discussing pasts and plans with Sam during their stay at Dragonstone, so he’d only been able to catch a glimpse of the knight in the dragon halls on the lone night of his stay. Yet even with such little familiarity, Jon recognized him immediately.

He had been alone then, too. But at least today he was dressed in immaculate Northern armor, and looked every bit of his proud House.

“Aye, _Ser_ Jorah Mormont,” called Tormund. Frowning deeply, the knight stepped over to him. “Glad to see an old bear returned home! Where’s your sister, Maege? Still at Moat Cailin, eh?”

All heads turned to Tormund, everyone wondering how he knew that. Jon turned to eye Lady Lyanna. She was glaring fiercely at Tormund, but hadn’t dismounted or turned away just yet. _What is he thinking?_ But Ser Jorah was so startled he didn’t answer right away…or at all. He surprised them all when instead, he kneeled in the frozen mud, bowing his head to Jon.

“Your grace.” His voice was low, rumbling in his chest. “My lady.” 

Lady Lyanna nodded to him. “Uncle. Have you made yourself comfortable while we were away?”

“Of course. Mormont Keep is as I remembered. I’ll remain grateful until my dying day—” His eyes caught Jon’s, then lowered again—“to the ladies of our House, and of course, to your graces, Queen Daenerys Stormborn and King Jon.”

 _Daenerys Stormborn?_ When was the last he’d heard her referred to as such? _Dany told me of your love for her,_ Jon thought, _yet seeing it is different._ No wonder she worried he could become possessive. But Jon was confident in their love, and the preservation of their faith. _Besides, if Dany had ever wanted you, she would have chosen you a long time ago._  

It was the reminder that she had _chosen_ Jon that lifted a smile to his lips—small as it was—and motivated him to say, “Stand, Ser Jorah.”

The knight moved to his feet and finally met Jon’s eyes. For a long moment, neither knew what to say.

“Your past transgressions have long been forgiven and removed from your House record. You’ve earned your freedom.”

Ser Jorah chuckled darkly. “During my time in _Essos_ , I did things we do not yet have laws for.” 

Jon frowned doubtfully. “Such things are matters of your heart, which are only for the Gods to judge. In the end, the good you’ve done outweigh the bad. You were our Queen’s trusted advisor on her long journey home. And although it was your lord father’s choice, he graced me with _your_ House sword, without which I’d be dead twice over. Her grace tells me not to return Longclaw to you, but I must ask. Do you want it?”

“No.” 

Jon had only realized he’d expected a different answer when he finally had it.

“Longclaw is yours. Even the hilt says so. I will be fine without it.” 

“Get him some _dragonglass_ , then,” said Tormund, chuckling. “Don’t suppose you lot on Bear Island have been given any swords from er…his grace and the rest of them, yet?”

Ser Jorah withdrew a large dagger from the hip opposite of the one that held his sword. The blade was sharp and black as the night, its oily sheen glinting in the daylight. “Her grace sent three dozen blades to House Mormont while you were still mining at Dragonstone, before the storms worsened.” 

“Good,” said Jon, inclining his head to the knight. “How many yet, my lady?”

“Three hundred and six thousand, your grace.”

“I could have answered yer,” said Tormund. 

Jon heaved a breath, then turned at the familiar voice shouting his name. Someone large was pushing through the steady crowd, but even as he neared, Jon didn’t have to guess. Samwell Tarly burst through a final dozen men before he came before the mounted party, panting in the cold air. In his hands rested a large auroch’s horn banded in bronze and inscribed with runes of the First Men. Immediately, Jon dismounted and met him.

“Aye!” came Tormund’s alarmed voice. “The bloody hell is that, Snow? Is that the real Horn of—” 

“Tormund, please!” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “How do you still have this, Sam? I gave it to you years ago!”

It was the same horn Jon had found during the great ranging Beyond the Wall, buried beneath snow and a large stone at the Gift. It was a useless old thing, cracked on the sides, so it made no sound. He had given it to Sam, because his friend liked such things, but in all that had happened, Jon couldn’t believe Sam had kept it. 

“Long story short,” Sam started, “I brought it to Craster’s Keep and after bringing Gilly to Castle Black, I left it with her for safe keeping.”

“Sam, how did she keep it safe all those leagues you travelled across land and sea? The girl had never left home before you met!”

“Exactly! She’s amazing!”

Jon glared, growing impatient with his old friend.

“Okay, look. We decided to keep it a secret—” 

“As bloody well you should have, Crow. If Mance had it we could have taken this ugly thing down a long time ago.”

“It would have done no good, Tormund,” Jon snapped. “You’d have brought the dead with you.” To Sam he asked, “Why do you bring this to me now?”

Sam was suddenly hedging. “You know how I get seasick... When we left the Twins, there was nothing to distract me but to fiddle with the damned thing… Well, before I knew it, the cracks had sealed…and I fixed it.”

“ _YOU FUCKIN’ DID WHAT_?”

“Are you the biggest idiot in the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Damn maesters!”

“I should have never sent you to Oldtown,” Jon snapped, grabbing him by the sleeve and shaking. “All you’ll want to do is fix things that should remain broken! By the Gods, Sam!”

 Sam could say nothing, which was the best for everyone. When Jon mounted his horse yet again, he was suddenly bone tired. He didn’t know if it was the cold growing with the afternoon, the horn in Sam’s hands, or both.

“I’m going to tell Daenerys— _your Queen—_ about this. Return it to your cabin and never take it out again.” He’d taken his horse a few paces before he turned back. “No, I don’t trust you not to lose it on the way. Stay here with the others. _Keep him safe until I return._ ”

As he rode off, Tormund’s voice followed him. “We should just burn the damned thing now!”

“Then do that!” he said over his shoulder. “I want it in ashes when I return! And keep counting!”

When Jon and Dany left the ship together they parted ways at the island docks. She mounted a pale mare—still, he didn’t know how she kept finding them—and then she headed off to Mormont Keep as he was mounting his own. She and Sansa had planned to oversee the temporary housing of the few lords who could fit in the hall. Then Jon would meet with her, Sansa and their small council to finalize their battle plans while their men set up tents along rocky shores and farming space further inland. Bear Island had never taken in such a large host, so the details were haphazard. They weren’t even sure they could feed everyone that night, let alone get all fifty thousand men onto the island. But they would try, because they didn’t want anyone on the water. Whoever was there would be easy pickings when the night fell.

Things were hard enough with the blasted Horn of Joramun having been repaired. Jon didn’t want to bring such news to her, but she needed to know of the potential weakness, so he pushed his mount as fast she could go without slipping on the treacherous ground. The snows had begun to fall thick, making it harder to see past the small grove of oak trees that lined the shore. He knew he was nearing when he saw the outcrop of Mormont Keep: a large hall built of huge logs, surrounded by an earthen palisade.

That was, until a horn sounded. _That is okay,_ he thought. _More men are coming onto the island. Perhaps we are nearing ten thousand._

He kept riding. His horse was nearing. He could see a carving of a woman at the castle gate.

Then the second horn sounded. _No matter,_ he thought, and kept riding. He needed to get to Daenerys. He needed to see her face, if only for a moment. The carved woman at the gate began to take shape, revealing a bearskin about her shoulders, a babe suckling at her breast in one arm and a battleaxe in the other.

Then the third horn sounded.

_No, no, no!_

Thunder cracked in the air before he could look up. Thick mists were rolling in from the lands just beyond the Wall—something he’d seen too many times not to identify.

“Daenerys!” he shouted. “Dany!”

He would keep going. He had to get to her.

“Dany!”

As his mount pushed further, finally nearing the hall, he glanced over his shoulder. The mists tumbled down the Wall, obscuring the remains of the Shadow Tower and rolling onto the deep waters of the Bay of Ice. The air had already turned cold enough to freeze the tears on his cheeks if he’d had any. _Not today,_ he vowed. _Never again._ He called to Daenerys until his voice was sore. He wouldn’t arrive in time… _For what?_

He had his answer, in the graceful and terrifying flight of a dragon, soaring above his head and heading to the south shore of Bear Island. It was _Drogon_ … And the tiny dot on his back was Daenerys. Just before they reached the shore, plumes of red, white and orange flew from _Drogon’s_ beastly jaws and descended on the water. Jon did not have to see the dead things to know they were there. 

He’d had only a moment to rejoice, before a fourth horn sounded… But it was not the sound of the three before… It was deeper and wider… Older. 

_No._

That was the Horn of Joramun… There was no way Sam would have blown the damned thing, knowing what it could do. Which meant the company Jon had left was in danger. However, he had no time to react, before rumbling sounded in the distance. There the Wall was, cracking in places unseen, separating to pieces that crashed to the ground with great fury. Even from the league and half Jon was away from the shore, where tons of pulverized ice was dumped into a freezing hell, he could make out the jagged silhouette which he’d never forget.

The Night’s King had stepped onto the docks. Around him, wights crawled along the surface of the world, striking down men and women with crazed fury. Fear gripped Jon again.

 _He saw me, Sam._ And now, the Night’s King saw Jon again, stars for eyes trained as if to gut him right there. But this time, Jon was not cowed. This time, he knew what to do.

He turned his mount around for the last time, and sent her charging into the thick grove of aged oak trees. Up a steep hill, rounding past trunks and ducking below dead branches. When they reached a far enough elevation, Jon dismounted, cupped his hands at his mouth and shouted.

“ _Rhaegal!”_  

A moment passed with nothing.

“ _RHAEGAL!”_

It was cold on this hill, as if he’d stepped onto the most distant part of the island. Up here the air was tight and dry, but no less withered with thick snow. Jon refused to quit. He called the dragon’s name until his sore voice cracked, recalling the way Dany commanded _Drogon_ to appear from the sky; recalling her fury and command, the fire riding on the air where she breathed, the feeling of wonder and openness that took him. Daenerys was _Rhaegal’s_ mother, and the green dragon was her child. But he was also the dragon that reminded her most of her oldest brother, Jon’s father. _Rhaegar was blood of the dragon,_ thought Jon, _as is Dany. As am I._ He would take what was his. And he would put this world to rights.

Suddenly, the green dragon dipped out of the thick clouds, large wings fanning as he landed on a set of trees. He crouched his large head downward and trained red eyes on Jon. Having no fear, Jon raised his palm to _Rhaegal’s_ snout like he had the lone time they did this dance.   

“Let me on,” he said in the Common Tongue, deepening this voice. “Let me fly with you, _Rhaegal_.”

The dragon huffed so low it could have been a purr. Then he shivered from neck, to wings, to talons, which he marched forward to get closer. Taking that as the go-ahead, Jon rounded _Rhaegal’s_ side and climbed onto his back. Below, orange fires burst in the spaces between scales of grey, white and green, radiating the kind of heat Jon had only known once before. Like clockwork, the muscle of his burnt left palm made a spasm—but this time, he laid it flat against the hot scales, breathing deep.

Far below, a wave of chaos overtook Bear Island, resounding in the clash of swords, rattling bones and the cries of slain men. Jon wasted no time. He laid his front flat on _Rhaegal’s_ thick serpent neck, paying no mind to the sharp edges of his scaled spines. Then, after wrapping his hands about the spines, he whispered, “ _Sōvemagon._ ” 

 _Rhaegal_ crouched and took the world down with him. Ten after making a short run while flapping his wings, he took off into the sky. Without a saddle to keep him steady, Jon had to hold on for dear life. Soon, however, the rush of the open air took his chest and carried his heart higher than he could have ever imagined. Even with the terror taking place down below, a laugh lifted from Jon’s chest. At the shore, the eyes of the Night’s King had already trained on him, but with the rush of _dragonflame_ at his command, Jon was unafraid.

“ _Dracarys_!”

Below, the world was torn asunder.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a kudos or comment if you liked! 
> 
> Much love <3
> 
> EDIT: After some thinking, I realized this baby isn't done growing. At the beginning I had promised 6 installments, the final in which Jon doesn't have much reason to smile. (Lol it's in the title too!) Well, I'm going do that. Stay tuned for the epilogue next week. Hopefully Jon and Dany are okay. 
> 
> Thanks for your support!


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